The Surrey Summer-Camp for Tired Workers had been planned by the Bishop of Fulham out of the largeness of his heart and the plenitude of his inexperience in such undertakings. He had borrowed a meadow, acquired a cow, hired a marquee, and wangled fifty army bell-tents and a field-kitchen, about which in all probability questions would be asked in the House. Finally as the result of a brain-wave he had requisitioned the local boy scouts. Later there would be the devil to pay with the leaders of the Boys' Brigade; but the bishop abounded in tact.
When the time came, the meadow was there, the bell-tents, the cow, and the boy scouts duly arrived; but of the marquee nothing had been seen or heard, and as for the field-kitchen, the War Office could say little beyond the fact that it had left Aldershot.
For days the bishop worked indefatigably with telephone and telegraph, endeavouring to trace the errant field-kitchen and the missing marquee; butso much of his time had been occupied in obtaining the necessary assistance to ensure that the cow was properly and punctually milked, that other things, being farther away, had seemed less insistent.
In those days the bishop had much to worry him; but his real cross was Daisy, the cow. Everything else was of minor importance compared with this bovine responsibility. Vaguely he had felt that if you had a cow you had milk; but he was to discover that on occasion a cow could be as unproductive of milk as a sea-serpent.
None of the campers had ever approached a cow in her professional capacity. Night and morning she had to be relieved of a twelve hours' accumulation of milk, all knew that; but how? That was a question which had perturbed bishop and campers alike; for the whole camp shared the ecclesiastical anxiety about Daisy. Somewhere at the back of the cockney mind was the suspicion, amounting almost to a certainty, that, unless regularly milked, cows exploded, like overcharged water-mains.
Daisy soon developed into something more than a cow. When other occupations failed (amusements there were none), the campers would collect round Daisy, examining her from every angle. She was a mystery, just as a juggler or the three-card trick were mysteries, and as such she commanded respect.
Each night and morning the bishop had to produce from somewhere a person capable of ministering to the requirements of Daisy, and everyone in the neighbourhood was extremely busy. Apart from this, West Boxton was a hot-bed of Nonconformity, and some of the inhabitants were much exercised in their minds as to the spiritual effect upon a Dissenter of milking a church cow.
There were times when the bishop felt like a conjurer, billed to produce a guinea-pig from a top-hat, who had left the guinea-pig at home.
Daisy was not without her uses, quite apart from those for which she had been provided by Providence and the bishop. "Come an' 'ave a look at Daisy," had become the conversational forlorn hope of the campers when utterly bankrupt of all other interests. She was their shield against boredom and the spear with which to slay the dragon of apathy.
"No beer, no pictures, only a ruddy cow," a cynic had remarked in summing up the amusements provided by the Surrey Summer-Camp for Tired Workers. "Enough to give a giddy flea the blinkin' 'ump," he had concluded; but his was only an isolated view. For the most part these shipwrecked cockneys were grateful to Daisy, and they never tired of watching the milk spurt musically into the bright pail beneath her.
The bishop was well-meaning, but forgetful. In planning his camp he had entirely overlooked the difficulty of food and water supplies. The one was a mile distant and could not be brought nearer; the other had been overcome by laying a pipe, at considerable expense.
In the natural order of disaster the campers hadarrived, and in a very few hours became tinctured with the heresy of anti-clericalism. Husbands quarrelled with wives as to who should bear the responsibility for the adventure to which they found themselves committed. One and all questioned the right of a bishop to precipitate himself into the domestic circle as a bearer of discord and summer-camps.
At the time of the arrival of the Bindles, everything seemed chaos. There was a spatter of bell-tents on the face of the meadow, piles of personal possessions at the entrance of the tents, whilst the "tired workers" loitered about in their shirt sleeves, or strove to prepare meals in spite of the handicaps with which they were surrounded. The children stood about wide-eyed and grave, as if unable to play their urban games in a bucolic setting.
When, under the able command of Patrol-leader Smithers, the Bindles' belongings had been piled up just inside the meadow and Mrs. Bindle helped down, sore in body and disturbed in temper, the indefatigable boy scout led the way towards a tent. He carried the Japanese basket in one hand, and the handleless bag under the other arm, whilst Bindle followed with the tin-bath, and Mrs. Bindle made herself responsible for the bundle of blankets, through the centre of which the parrot-headed umbrella peeped out coyly.
Their guide paused at the entrance of a bell-tent, and deposited the Japanese basket on the ground.
"This is your tent," he announced, "I'll send one of the patrol to help you," and, with the air of oneupon whose shoulders rests the destiny of planets, he departed.
Bindle and Mrs. Bindle gazed after him, then at each other, finally at the tent. Bindle stepped across and put his head inside; but quickly withdrew it.
"Smells like a bus on a wet day," he muttered.
With an air of decision Mrs. Bindle entered the tent. As she did so Bindle winked gravely at a little boy who had wandered up, and now stood awaiting events with blue-eyed gravity. At Bindle's wink he turned and trotted off to a neighbouring tent, from the shelter of which he continued to watch the domestic tragedy of the new arrivals.
"There are no bedsteads." Mrs. Bindle's voice came from within the tent in tones of muffled tragedy.
"You don't say so," said Bindle abstractedly, his attention concentrated upon a diminutive knight of the pole, who was approaching their tent.
"Where's the feather beds, 'Orace?" he demanded when the lad was within ear-shot.
"There's a waterproof ground-sheet and we supply mattresses of loose straw," he announced as he halted sharply within two paces of where Bindle stood.
"Oh! you do, do you?" said Bindle, "an' who 'appens to supply the brass double-bedstead wot me and Mrs. B. is used to sleep on. P'raps you can tell me that, young shaver?"
Before the lad had time to reply, Mrs. Bindle appearedat the entrance of the tent, grimmer and more uncompromising than ever. For a moment she eyed the lad severely.
"Where am I to sleep?" she demanded.
"Are you with this gentleman?" enquired the boy scout.
"She is, sonny," said Bindle, "been with me for twenty years now. Can't lose 'er no'ow."
"Bindle, behave yourself!" Mrs. Bindle's jaws closed with a snap.
"We're going to 'ave some sacks of straw in place of that missionary's bed you an' me sleeps on in Fulham," explained Bindle; but Mrs. Bindle had disappeared once more into the tent.
For the next hour the Bindles and their assistant scout were engaged in getting the bell-tent into habitable condition. During the process the scout explained that the marquee was to have been used for the communal meals, which the field-kitchen was to supply; but both had failed to arrive, and the bishop had himself gone up to London to make enquiries.
"An' wot's goin' to 'appen to us till 'e runs acrost 'em?" enquired Bindle. "I'm feelin' a bit peckish myself now—wot I'll be like in a hour's time I don't know."
"I'll show you how to build a scout-fire," volunteered the lad.
"But I ain't a fire-eater," objected Bindle. "I want a bit o' steak, or a rasher an' an egg."
"What's the use of a scout-fire to me with kippersto cook?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, appearing once more at the entrance of the tent.
At that moment another "tired worker" drifted across to the Bindles' tent. He was a long, lean man with a straggling moustache and three days' growth of beard. He was in his shirt sleeves, collarless, with unbuttoned waistcoat, and he wore a general air of despondency and gloom.
"'Ow goes it, mate?" he enquired.
Bindle straightened himself from inspecting the interior of the tin-bath which he was unpacking.
"Oh! mid; but I've known wot it is to be 'appier," said Bindle, with a grin.
"Same 'ere," was the gloomy response.
"Things sort o' seem to 'ave gone wrong," suggested Bindle conversationally.
"That's right," said the man, rubbing the bristles of his chin with a meditative thumb.
"'Ow you gettin' on for grub?" asked Bindle.
The man shook his head lugubriously.
"What about a pub?"
"Mile away," gloomed the man.
"Gawd Almighty!" Bindle's exclamation was not concerned with the man's remark, but with something he extracted from the bath. "Well, I'm blowed," he muttered.
"'Ere, Lizzie," he called out.
Mrs. Bindle appeared at the entrance of the tent. Bindle held up an elastic-sided boot from which marmalade fell solemnly and reluctantly.
Then the flood-gates of Mrs. Bindle's wrath burst apart, and she poured down upon Bindle's head a deluge of reproach. He and he alone was responsible for all the disasters that had befallen them. He had done it on purpose because she wanted a holiday. He wasn't a husband, he was a blasphemer, an atheist, a cumberer of the earth, and all that was evil.
She was interrupted in her tirade by the approach of a little man with a round, bald, shiny head and a worried expression of countenance.
"D'yer know 'ow to milk a cow, mate?" he enquired of Bindle, apparently quite unconscious that he had precipitated himself into the midst of a domestic scene.
"Do I know 'ow to wot?" demanded Bindle, eyeing the man as if he had asked a most unusual question.
"There's a bloomin' cow over there and nobody can't milk 'er, an' the bishop's gone, and we wants our tea."
Bindle scratched his head through his cap, then, turning towards the tent into which Mrs. Bindle had once more disappeared, he called out:
"Hi, Lizzie, jer know 'ow to milk a cow?"
"Don't be beastly," came the reply from the tent.
"It ain't one of them cows," he called back, "it's a milk cow, an' 'ere's a cove wot wants 'is tea."
Mrs. Bindle appeared at the entrance of the tent, and surveyed the group of three men.
"How did you manage yesterday?" she demanded practically.
"A girl come over from the farm, missis," said the little man, "and she didn't 'arf make it milk."
"Hold your tongue," snapped Mrs. Bindle.
The man gazed at her in surprise.
"Why don't you get the same girl?" asked Mrs. Bindle.
"She says she's too busy. I 'ad a try myself," said the man, "only it was a washout."
"I'll 'ave a look at 'er," Bindle announced, and the three men moved off across the meadow, picking their way among the tents with their piles of bedding, blankets, and other impedimenta outside. All were getting ready for the night.
When Bindle reached Daisy, he found the problem had been solved by one of Mr. Timkins' farm-hands, who was busily at work, watched by an interested group of campers.
During the next half-hour, Bindle strolled about among the tents learning many things, foremost among which was that "the whole ruddy camp was a washout." The commissariat had failed badly, and the nearest drink was a mile away at The Trowel and Turtle. A great many things were said about the bishop and the organisers of the camp.
When he returned to the tent, he found Mrs. Bindle engaged in boiling water in a petrol-tin over a scout-fire. With the providence of a good housewife she had brought with her emergency supplies, and Bindlewas soon enjoying a meal comprised of kipper, tea and bread and margarine. When he had finished, he announced himself ready to face the terrors of the night.
"I can't say as I likes it," he remarked, as he stood at the entrance to the tent, struggling to undo his collar. "Seems to me sort o' draughty."
"That's right, go on," cried Mrs. Bindle, as she pushed past him. "What did you expect?"
"Well, since you asks me, I'm like those coves in religion wot expects nothink; but gets an 'ell of a lot."
"Don't blaspheme. It's Sunday to-morrow," was the rejoinder; but Bindle had strolled away to commune with the man with a stubbly chin and pessimistic soul.
"Do yer sleep well, mate?" he enquired, conversationally.
"Crikey! sleep is it? There ain't no blinkin' sleep in this 'ere ruddy camp."
"Wot's up?" enquired Bindle.
"Up!" was the lugubrious response. "Awake all last night, I was."
"Wot was you doin'?" queried Bindle with interest.
"Scratchin'!" was the savage retort.
"Scratchin'! Who was you scratchin'?"
"Who was I scratchin'? Who the 'ell should I be scratchin' but myself?" he demanded, his apathy momentarily falling from him. "I'd like to know where they got that blinkin' straw from wot they giveus to lie on. I done a bit o' scratchin' in the trenches; but last night I 'adn't enough fingers, damn 'em."
Bindle whistled.
"Then," continued the man with gloomy gusto, "there's them ruddy chickens in the mornin', a-crowin' their guts out. Not a wink o' sleep after three for anybody," he added, with all the hatred of the cockney for farmyard sounds. "Oh! it's an 'oliday, all right," he added with scathing sarcasm, "only it ain't ours."
"Seems like it," said Bindle drily, as he turned on his heel and made for his own tent.
That night, he realised to the full the iniquities of the man who had supplied the straw for the mattresses. By the sounds that came from the other side of the tent-pole, he gathered that Mrs. Bindle was similarly troubled.
Towards dawn, Bindle began to doze, just as the cocks were announcing the coming of the sun. If the man with the stubbly chin were right in his diagnosis, the birds, like Prometheus, had, during the night, renewed their missing organisms.
"Well, I'm blowed!" muttered Bindle. "Ole six-foot-o'-melancholy wasn't swinging the lead neither. 'Oly ointment! I never 'eard such a row in all my puff. There ain't no doubt but wot Mrs. Bindle's gettin' a country 'oliday," and with that he rose and proceeded to draw on his trousers, deciding that it was folly to attempt further to seek sleep.
Outside the tent, he came across Patrol-leader Smithers.
"Mornin' Foch," said Bindle.
"Smithers," said the lad. "Patrol-leader Smithers of the Bear Patrol."
"My mistake," said Bindle; "but you an' Foch is jest as like as two peas. You don't 'appen to 'ave seen a stray cock about, do you?"
"A cock," repeated the boy.
"Yes!" said Bindle, tilting his head on one side with the air of one listening intently, whilst from all sides came the brazen blare of ecstatic chanticleers. "I thought I 'eard one just now."
"They're Farmer Timkins' fowls," said Patrol-leader Smithers gravely.
"You don't say so," said Bindle. "Seem to be in good song this mornin'. Reg'lar bunch o' canaries."
To this flippancy, Patrol-leader Smithers made no response.
"Does there 'appen to be any place where I can get a rinse, 'Indenberg?" he enquired.
"There's a tap over there for men," said Patrol-leader Smithers, pointing to the extreme right of the field, "and for ladies over there," he pointed in the opposite direction.
"No mixed bathin', I see," murmured Bindle. "Now, as man to man, Ludendorff, which would you advise?"
The lad looked at him with grave eyes. "The men's tap is over there," and again he pointed.
"Well, well," said Bindle, "p'raps you're right; but I ain't fond o' takin' a bath in the middle of a field," he muttered.
"The taps are screened off."
"Well, well, live an' learn," muttered Bindle, as he made for the men's tap.
When Bindle returned to the tent, he found Patrol-leader Smithers instructing Mrs. Bindle in how to coax a scout-fire into activity.
"You mustn't poke it, mum," said the lad. "It goes out if you do."
Mrs. Bindle drew in her lips, and folded the brown mackintosh she was wearing more closely about her. She was not accustomed to criticism, particularly in domestic matters, and her instinct was to disregard it; but the boy's earnestness seemed to discourage retort, and she had already seen the evil effect of attacking a scout-fire with a poker.
Suddenly her eye fell upon Bindle, standing in shirt and trousers, from the back of which his braces dangled despondently.
"Why don't you go in and dress?" she demanded. "Walking about in that state!"
"I been to get a rinse," he explained, as he walked across to the tent and disappeared through the aperture.
Mrs. Bindle snorted angrily. She had experienced a bad night, added to which the fire had resented her onslaught by incontinently going out, necessitating an appeal to a mere child.
Having assumed a collar, a coat and waistcoat,Bindle strolled round the camp exchanging a word here and a word there with his fellow campers, who, in an atmosphere of intense profanity, were engaged in getting breakfast.
"Never 'eard such language," muttered Bindle with a grin. "This 'ere little camp'll send a rare lot o' people to a place where they won't meet the bishop."
At the end of half-an-hour he returned and found tea, eggs and bacon, and Mrs. Bindle waiting for him.
"So you've come at last," she snapped, as he seated himself on a wooden box.
"Got it this time," he replied genially, sniffing the air appreciatively. "'Ope you got somethink nice for yer little love-bird."
"Don't you love-bird me," cried Mrs. Bindle, who had been looking for some one on whom to vent her displeasure. "I suppose you're going to leave me to do all the work while you go gallivanting about playing the gentleman."
"I don't needs to play it, Mrs. B., I'm IT. Vere de Vere with blood as blue as 'Earty's stories."
"If you think I'm going to moil and toil and cook for you down here as I do at home, you're mistaken. I came for a rest. I've hardly had a wink of sleep all night," she sniffed ominously.
"I thought I 'eard you on the 'unt," said Bindle sympathetically.
"Bindle!" There was warning in her tone.
"But wasn't you?" He looked across at her in surprise, his mouth full of eggs and bacon.
"I—I had a disturbed night," she drew in her lips primly.
"So did I," said Bindle gloomily. "I'd 'ave disturbed 'em if I could 'ave caught 'em. My God! There must 'ave been millions of 'em," he added reminiscently.
"If you're going to talk like that, I shall go away," she announced.
"I'd like to meet the cove wot filled them mattresses," was Bindle's sinister comment.
"It—it wasn't that," said Mrs. Bindle. "It was the——" She paused for a moment.
"Them cocks," he suggested.
"Don't be disgusting, Bindle."
"Disgusting? I never see such a chap as me for bein' lood an' disgustin' an' blasphemious. Wot jer call 'em if they ain't cocks?"
"They're roosters—the male birds."
"But they wasn't roostin', blow 'em. They was crowin', like giddy-o."
Mrs. Bindle made no comment; but continued to eat her breakfast.
"Personally, myself, I'm goin' to 'ave a little word with the bishop about that little game I 'ad with wot 'appened before wot you call them male birds started givin' tongue." He paused to take breath. "I don't like to mention wot it was; but I shall itch for a month. 'Ullo Weary!" he called out to the long man with the stubbly chin.
The man approached. He was wearing the same lugubrious look and the same waistcoat, unbuttoned in just the same manner that it had been unbuttoned the day before.
"You was right about them mattresses and the male birds," said Bindle, with a glance at Mrs. Bindle.
"The wot?" demanded the man, gazing vacantly at Bindle.
"The male birds."
"'Oo the 'ell—sorry, mum," to Mrs. Bindle. Then turning once more to Bindle he added, "Them cocks, you mean?"
"'Ush!" said Bindle. "They ain't cocks 'ere, they're male birds, an' roosters on Sunday. You see, my missis——" but Mrs. Bindle had risen and, with angry eyes, had disappeared into the tent.
"Got one of 'em?" queried Bindle, jerking his thumb in the direction of the aperture of the tent.
The man with the stubbly chin nodded dolefully.
"Thought so," said Bindle. "You looks it."
Whilst Bindle was strolling round the camp with the man with the stubbly chin, Mrs. Bindle was becoming better acquainted with the peculiar temperament of a bell-tent. She had already realised its disadvantages as a dressing-room. It was dark, it was small, it was stuffy. The two mattresses occupied practically the whole floor-space and there was nowhere to sit. It was impossible to move about freely,owing to the restrictions of space in the upper area.
Having washed the breakfast-things, peeled the potatoes, supplied by Mr. Timkins through Patrol-leader Smithers, and prepared for the oven a small joint of beef she had brought with her, Mrs. Bindle once more withdrew into the tent.
When she eventually re-appeared in brown alpaca with a bonnet to match, upon which rested two purple pansies, Bindle had just returned from what he called "a nose round," during which he had made friends with most of the campers, men, women and children, who were not already his friends.
At the sight of Mrs. Bindle he whistled softly.
"You can show me where the bakers is," she said icily, as she proceeded to draw on a pair of brown kid gloves. The inconveniences arising from dressing in a bell-tent had sorely ruffled her temper.
"The bakers!" he repeated stupidly.
"Yes, the bakers," she repeated. "I suppose you don't want to eat your dinner raw."
Then Bindle strove to explain the composite tragedy of the missing field-kitchen and marquee, to say nothing of the bishop.
In small communities news travels quickly, and the Bindles soon found themselves the centre of a group of men and women (with children holding a watching brief), all anxious to volunteer information, mainly on the subject of misguided bishops who got unsuspecting townsmen into the country under false pretences.
Mrs. Bindle was a good housewife, and she had come prepared with rations sufficient for the first two days. She had, however, depended upon the statements contained in the prospectus of the S.C.T.W., that cooking facilities would be provided by the committee.
She strove to control the anger that was rising within her. It was the Sabbath, and she was among strangers.
Although ready and willing to volunteer information, the other campers saw no reason to restrain their surprise and disapproval of Mrs. Bindle's toilette. The other women were in their work-a-day attire, as befitted housewives who had dinners to cook under severe handicaps, and they resented what they regarded as a newcomer's "swank."
That first day of the holiday, for which she had fought with such grim determination, lived long in Mrs. Bindle's memory. Dinner she contrived with the aid of the frying-pan and the saucepan she had brought with her. It would have taken something more than the absence of a field-kitchen to prevent Mrs. Bindle from doing what she regarded as her domestic duty.
The full sense of her tragedy, however, manifested itself when, dinner over, she had washed-up.
There was nothing to do until tea-time. Bindle had disappeared with the man with the stubbly chin and two others in search of the nearest public-house, a mile away. Patrol-leader Smithers was at Sunday-school, whilst her fellow-campers showed no inclination to make advances.
She walked for a little among the other tents; but her general demeanour was not conducive to hasty friendships. She therefore returned to the tent and wrote to Mr. Hearty, telling him, on the authority of Patrol-leader Smithers, that Mr. Timkins had a large quantity of excellent strawberries for sale.
Mr. Hearty was a greengrocer who had one eye on business and the other eye on God, in case of accidents. On hearing that the Bindles were going into the country, his mind had instinctively flown to fruit and vegetables. He had asked Mrs. Bindle to "drop him a postcard" (Mr. Hearty was always economical in the matter of postages, even other people's postages) if she heard of anything that she thought might interest him.
Mrs. Bindle told in glowing terms the story of Farmer Timkins' hoards of strawberries, giving the impression that he was at a loss what to do with them.
Three o'clock brought the bishop and a short open-air service, which was attended by the entire band of campers, with the exception of Bindle and his companions.
The bishop was full of apologies for the past and hope for the future. In place of a sermon he gave an almost jovial address; but there were no answering smiles. Everyone was wondering what they could do until it was time for bed, the more imaginative going still further and speculating what they were to do when they got there.
"My friends," the bishop concluded, "we must notallow trifling mishaps to discourage us. We are here to enjoy ourselves."
And the campers returned to their tents as Achilles had done a few thousand years before, dark of brow and gloomy of heart.
I
"He's sure to lose his way across the fields," cried Mrs. Bindle angrily.
"'Earty's too careful to lose anythink," said Bindle, as, from a small tin box, he crammed tobacco into his pipe. "'E's used to the narrow way 'e is," he added.
"You ought to have gone to meet him."
"My legs is feelin' a bit tired——" began Bindle, who enjoyed his brother-in-law's society only when there were others to enjoy it with him.
"Bother your legs," she snapped.
"Supposin' you 'ad various veins in your legs."
"Don't be nasty."
"Well, wot jer want to talk about my legs for, if I mustn't talk about yours," he grumbled.
"You've got a lewd mind, Bindle," she retorted, "and you know it."
"Well, any'ow, I ain't got lood legs."
She drew in her lips; but said nothing.
"I don't know wot 'Earty wants to come down to a funny little 'ole like this for," grumbled Bindle, asthey walked across the meadow adjoining the camping-ground, making for a spot that would give them a view of the field-path leading to the station.
"It's because he wants to buy some fruit."
"I thought there was somethink at the back of the old bird's mind," he remarked. "'Earty ain't one to spend railway fares jest for the love o' seein' you an' me, Mrs. B. It's apples 'es after—reg'lar old Adam 'e is. You only got to watch 'im with them gals in the choir."
"If you talk like that I shall leave you," she cried angrily; "and it's strawberries, apples aren't in yet," she added, as if that were a circumstance in Mr. Hearty's favour.
Mr. Hearty had proved himself to be a man of action. Mrs. Bindle's glowing account of vast stores of strawberries, to be had almost for the asking, had torn from him a telegram announcing that he would be at the Summer-Camp for Tired Workers soon after two o'clock that, Monday, afternoon.
Mrs. Bindle was almost genial at the prospect of seeing her brother-in-law, and earning his thanks for assistance rendered. Conditions at the camp remained unchanged. After the service on the previous day, the bishop had once more disappeared, ostensibly in pursuit of the errant field-kitchen and marquee, promising to return early the following afternoon.
Arrived at the gate on the further side of the field, Bindle paused. Then, as Mrs. Bindle refused his suggestion that he should "'oist" her up, he himself climbed on to the top-rail and sat contentedly smoking.
"I don't seem to see 'Earty a-walkin' across a field," he remarked meditatively. "It don't seem natural."
"You can't see anything but what's in your own wicked mind," she retorted acidly.
"Well, well!" he said philosophically. "P'raps you're right. I suppose we shall see them merry whiskers of 'is a-comin' round the corner, 'im a-leadin' a lamb with a pink ribbon. I can see 'Earty with a little lamb, an' a sprig o' mint for the sauce."
For nearly a quarter of an hour Bindle smoked in silence, whilst Mrs. Bindle stood with eyes fixed upon a stile on the opposite side of the field, over which Mr. Hearty was due to come.
"What was that?"
Involuntarily she clutched Bindle's knee, as a tremendous roar broke the stillness of the summer afternoon.
"That's ole Farmer Timkins' bull," explained Bindle. "Rare ole sport, 'e is. Tossed a cove last week, an' made a rare mess of 'im."
"It oughtn't to be allowed."
"Wot?"
"Dangerous animals like that," was the retort.
"Well, personally myself, I likes a cut o' veal," Bindle remarked, watching Mrs. Bindle covertly; but her thoughts were intent on Mr. Hearty, and the allusion passed unnoticed.
"It 'ud be a bad thing for ole 'Earty, if that bull was to get 'im by the back o' the trousers," mused Bindle. "'Ullo, there 'e is." He indicated with the stem of his pipe a point in the hedge on the right ofthe field, over which was thrust a great dun-coloured head.
Again the terrifying roar split the air. Instinctively Mrs. Bindle recoiled, and gripped the parrot-headed umbrella she was carrying.
"It's trying to get through. I'm not going to wait here," she announced with decision. "It may——"
"Don't you worry, Mrs. B.," he reassured her. "'E ain't one o' the jumpin' sort. Besides, there's an 'edge between 'im an' us, not to speak o' this 'ere gate."
Mrs. Bindle retired a yard or two, her eyes still on the dun-coloured head.
So absorbed were she and Bindle in watching the bull, that neither of them saw Mr. Hearty climbing the opposite stile.
As he stood on the topmost step, silhouetted against the blue sky, the tails of his frock-coat flapping, Bindle caught sight of him.
"'Ullo, 'ere's old 'Earty!" he cried, waving his hand.
Mr. Hearty descended gingerly to terra firma, then, seeing Mrs. Bindle, he raised his semi-clerical felt hat. In such matters, Mr. Hearty was extremely punctilious.
At that moment the bull appeared to catch sight of the figure with the flapping coat-tails.
It made a tremendous onslaught upon the hedge, and there was a sound of crackling branches; but the hedge held.
"Call out to him, Bindle. Shout! Warn him! Do you hear?" cried Mrs. Bindle excitedly.
"'E's all right," said Bindle complacently. "That there bull ain't a-goin' to get through an 'edge like that."
"Mr. Hearty, there's a bull! Run!"
Mrs. Bindle's thin voice entirely failed to carry to where Mr. Hearty was walking with dignity and unconcern, regardless of the danger which Mrs. Bindle foresaw threatened him.
The bull made another attack upon the hedge. Mr. Hearty's flapping coat-tails seemed to goad it to madness. There was a further crackling and the massive shoulders of the animal now became visible; but still it was unable to break through.
"Call out to him, Bindle. He'll be killed, and it'll be your fault," she cried hysterically, pale and trembling with anxiety.
"Look out, 'Earty!" yelled Bindle. "There's a bloomin' bull," and he pointed in the direction of the hedge; but the bull had disappeared.
Mr. Hearty looked towards the point indicated; but, seeing nothing, continued his dignified way, convinced that Bindle was once more indulging in what Mr. Hearty had been known to describe as "his untimely jests."
He was within some fifty yards of the gate where the Bindles awaited him, when there was a terrific crash followed by a mighty roar—the bull was through. It had retreated apparently in order to charge the hedge and break through by virtue of its mighty bulk.
Bindle yelled, Mrs. Bindle screamed, and Mr. Heartygave one wild look over his shoulder and, with terror in his eyes and his semi-clerical hat streaming behind, attached only by a hat-guard, he ran as he had never run before.
Bindle clambered down from the gate so as to leave the way clear, and Mrs. Bindle thrust her umbrella into Bindle's hands. She had always been told that no bull would charge an open umbrella.
"Come on, 'Earty!" yelled Bindle. "Run like 'ell!" In his excitement he squatted down on his haunches, for all the world like a man encouraging a whippet.
Mr. Hearty ran, and the bull, head down and with a snorting noise that struck terror to the heart of the fugitive, ran also.
"Run, Mr. Hearty, run!" screamed Mrs. Bindle again.
The bull was running diagonally in the direction of Mr. Hearty's fleeing figure. In this it was at a disadvantage.
"Get ready to help him over," cried Mrs. Bindle, terror clutching at her heart.
"Looks to me as if 'Earty and the bull and the whole bloomin' caboodle'll come over together," muttered Bindle.
"Oooooh!"
A new possibility seemed to strike Mrs. Bindle and, with a terrified look at the approaching bull, which at that moment gave utterance to a super-roar, she turned and fled for the gate on the opposite side of the field.
For a second Bindle tore his gaze from the drama before him. He caught sight of several inches of white leg above a pair of elastic-sided boots, out of which dangled black and orange tabs.
"Help, Joseph, help!" Mr. Hearty screamed in his terror and, a second later, he crashed against the gate on which Bindle had climbed ready to haul him over.
Seizing his brother-in-law by the collar and a mercifully slack pair of trousers, he gave him a mighty heave. A moment later, the two fell to the ground; but on the right side of the gate. As they did so, the bull crashed his head against it.
The whole structure shivered. For a moment Bindle gave himself up for lost; but, fortunately, the posts held. The enraged animal could do nothing more than thrust its muzzle between the bars of the gate and snort its fury.
The foaming mouth and evil-looking blood-shot eyes caused Bindle to scramble hastily to his feet.
"Oh God! I am a miserable sinner," wailed Mr. Hearty; "but spare me that I may repent." Then he fell to moaning, whilst Bindle caught a vision of Mrs. Bindle disappearing over the further gate with a startling exposure of white stocking.
"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered. "Ain't it funny 'ow religion gets into the legs when there's a bull about? Bit of a slump in 'arps, if you was to ask me!"
For some seconds he stood gazing down on the grovelling form of Mr. Hearty, an anxious eye on thebull which, with angry snorts, was battering the gate in a manner that caused him some concern.
"Look 'ere, 'Earty, you'd better nip orf," he said at length, bringing his boot gently into contact with a prominent portion of the greengrocer's prostrate form. Mr. Hearty merely groaned and muttered appeals to the Almighty to save him.
"It ain't no use a-kickin' up all that row," Bindle continued. "This 'ere bit o' beef seems to 'ave taken a fancy to you, 'Earty, an' that there gate ain't none too strong, neither. 'Ere, steady Kayser," he admonished, as the bull made a vicious dash with its head against the gate.
Mr. Hearty sat up and gave a wild look about him. At the sight of the blood-shot eyes of the enraged animal he scrambled to his feet.
"Now you make a bolt for that there stile," said Bindle, jerking his thumb in the direction where Mrs. Bindle had just disappeared, "and you'll find Mrs. B. somewhere on the other side."
With another apprehensive glance at the bull, Mr. Hearty turned and made towards the stile. His pace was strangely suggestive of a man cheating in a walking-race.
The sight of his quarry escaping seemed still further to enrage the bull. With a terrifying roar it dashed furiously at the gate.
The sound of the roar lent wings to the feet of the flying Mr. Hearty. Throwing aside all pretence, he made precipitately towards the stile, beyond which lay safety. For a few seconds, Bindle stood watchingthe flying figure of his brother-in-law. Then he turned off to the right, along the hedge dividing the meadow from the field occupied by the bull.
"Well, 'ere's victory or Westminster Abbey," he muttered as he crept through a hole in the hawthorn, hoping that the bull would not observe him. His object was to warn the farmer of the animal's escape.
Half an hour later, he climbed the stile over which Mrs. Bindle had disappeared; but there was no sign either of her or of Mr. Hearty.
It was not until he reached the Summer-Camp that he found them seated outside the Bindles' tent. Mr. Hearty, looking pasty of feature, was endeavouring to convey to his blanched lips a cup of tea that Mrs. Bindle had just handed to him; but the trembling of his hand caused it to slop over the side of the cup on to his trousers.
"'Ullo, 'ere we are again," cried Bindle cheerily.
"I wonder you aren't ashamed of yourself," cried Mrs. Bindle.
Bindle stared at her with a puzzled expression. He looked at Mr. Hearty, then back again at Mrs. Bindle.
"Leaving Mr. Hearty and me like that. We might have been killed." Her voice shook.
"That would 'ave been a short cut to 'arps an' wings."
"I'm ashamed of you, that I am," she continued, while Mr. Hearty turned upon his brother-in-law a pair of mildly reproachful eyes.
"Well, I'm blowed," muttered Bindle as he walked away. "If them two ain't IT.Mea-leavin'them. If that ain't a juicy bit."
Mr. Hearty was only half-way through his second cup of tea when the Bishop of Fulham, followed by several of the summer-campers, appeared and walked briskly towards them.
"Where's that husband of yours, Mrs. Bindle?" he enquired, as if he suspected Bindle of hiding from him.
"I'm sure I don't know, sir," she cried, rising, whilst Mr. Hearty, in following suit, stepped upon the tails of his coat and slopped the rest of the tea over his trousers.
"Ah," said the bishop. "I must find him. He's a fine fellow, crossing the field behind that bull to warn Mr. Timkins. If the beast had happened to get into the camp, it would have been the very—very disastrous," he corrected himself, and with a nod he passed on followed by the other campers.
"That's just like Bindle," she complained, "not saying a word, and making me ridiculous before the bishop. He's always treating me like that," and there was a whimper in her voice.
"It's—it's very unfortunate," said Mr. Hearty nervously.
"Thank you, Mr. Hearty," she said. "It's little enough sympathy I get."
II
It was not until nearly four o'clock that Bindle re-appeared with the intimation that he was ready to conduct Mr. Hearty to call upon Farmer Timkins with regard to the strawberries, the purchase of which had been the object of Mr. Hearty's visit.
"Won't you come, too, Elizabeth?" enquired Mr. Hearty, turning to Mrs. Bindle.
"Thank you, Mr. Hearty, I should like to," she replied, tightening her bonnet strings as if in anticipation of further violent movement.
Mr. Hearty gave the invitation more as a precaution against Bindle's high-spirits, than from a desire for his sister-in-law's company.
"'Ere, not that way," cried Bindle, as they were making for the gate leading to the road.
Mr. Hearty looked hesitatingly at Mrs. Bindle, who, however, settled the question by marching resolutely towards the gate.
"But it'll take a quarter of an hour that way," Bindle protested.
"If you think I'm going across any more fields with wild bulls, Bindle, you're mistaken," she announced with decision. "You've nearly killed Mr. Hearty once to-day. Let that be enough."
With a feeling of thankfulness Mr. Hearty followed.
"But that little bit o' beef is tied up with a ringthrough 'is bloomin' nose. I been an' 'ad a look at 'im."
"Ring or no ring," she snapped, "I'll have you know that I'm not going across any more fields. It's a mercy we're either of us alive."
Bindle knew that he was not the other one referred to, and he reluctantly followed, grumbling about long distances and various veins.
Although upon the high-road, both Mrs. Bindle and Mr. Hearty were what Bindle regarded as "a bit jumpy."
From time to time they looked about them with obvious apprehension, as if anticipating that from every point of the compass a bull was preparing to charge down upon them.
They paused at the main-entrance to the farm, allowing Bindle to lead the way.
Half-way towards the house, their nostrils were assailed by a devastating smell; Mr. Hearty held his breath, whilst Mrs. Bindle produced a handkerchief, wiped her lips and then held it to her nose. She had always been given to understand that the only antidote for a bad smell was to spit; but she was too refined to act up to the dictum without the aid of her handkerchief.
"Pigs!" remarked Bindle, raising his head and sniffing with the air of a connoisseur.
"Extremely insanitary," murmured Mr. Hearty. "You did say the—er bull was tied up, Joseph?" he enquired.
"Well, 'e was when I see 'im," said Bindle, "but ofcourse it wouldn't take long for 'im to undo 'imself."
Mr. Hearty glanced about him anxiously.
In front of the house the party paused. Nowhere was anyone to be seen. An old cart with its shafts pointing heavenward stood on the borders of a duck pond, green with slime.
The place was muddy and unclean, and Mrs. Bindle, with a look of disgust, drew up her skirts almost to the tops of her elastic-sided boots.
Bindle looked about him with interest. A hen appeared round the corner of the house, gazed at the newcomers for a few seconds, her head on one side, then disappeared from whence she had come.
Ducks stood on their heads in the water, or quacked comfortably as they swam about, apparently either oblivious or indifferent to the fact that there were callers.
From somewhere in the distance could be heard the sound of a horse stamping in its stall.
At the end of five minutes an old man appeared carrying a pail. At the sight of strangers, he stopped dead, his slobbering lips gaping in surprise.
"Can I see Mr. Timkins?" enquired Mr. Hearty, in refined but woolly tones.
"Farmer be over there wi' Bessie. I tell un she'll foal' fore night; but 'e will 'ave it she won't. 'E'll see. 'e will," he added with the air of a fatalist.
Mr. Hearty turned aside and became interested in the ducks, whilst Mrs. Bindle flushed a deep vermilion. Bindle said nothing; but watched with enjoyment the confusion of the others.
The man stared at them, puzzled to account for their conduct.
"Where did you say Mr. Timkins was to be found?" enquired Mr. Hearty.
"I just tell ee, in the stable wi' Bessie. 'E says she won't foal; but I know she will. Why she——"
Mr. Hearty did not wait for further information; but turned and made for what, from the motion of the man's head, he took to be the stable.
The others followed.
"No, not there," yelled the man, as if he were addressing someone in the next field. "Turn round to left o' that there muck 'eap."
A convulsive shudder passed over Mr. Hearty's frame. He was appalled at the coarseness engendered by an agricultural existence. He hurried on so that he should not have to meet Mrs. Bindle's eye.
At that moment Farmer Timkins was seen approaching. He was a short, red-faced man in a bob-tailed coat with large flapped-pockets, riding-breeches and gaiters. In his hand he carried a crop which, at the sight of Mrs. Bindle, he raised to his hat in salutation.
"Mornin'."
"Good afternoon," said Mr. Hearty genteelly.
The farmer fixed his eyes upon Mr. Hearty's emaciated sallowness, with all the superiority of one who knows that he is a fine figure of a man.
"It was you that upset Oscar, wasn't it?" There was more accusation than welcome in his tone.
"Upset Oscar?" enquired Mr. Hearty, nervouslylooking from the farmer to Mrs. Bindle, then back again to the farmer.
"Yes, my bull," explained Mr. Timkins.
"It was Oscar wot nearly upset pore old 'Earty," grinned Bindle.
"A savage beast like that ought to be shot," cried Mrs. Bindle, gazing squarely at the farmer. "It nearly killed——"
"Ought to be shot!" repeated the farmer, a dull flush rising to his face. "Shoot Oscar! Are you mad, ma'am?" he demanded, making an obvious effort to restrain his anger.
"Don't you dare to insult me," she cried. "You set that savage brute on to Mr. Hearty and it nearly killed him. I shall report you to the bishop—and—and—to the police," she added as an after-thought. "You ought to be prosecuted."
Mrs. Bindle's lips had disappeared into a grey line, her face was very white, particularly at the corners of the mouth. For nearly two hours she had restrained herself. Now that she was face to face with the owner of the bull that had nearly plunged her into mourning, her anger burst forth.
The farmer looked from one to the other in bewilderment.
"Report me to the police," he repeated dully. "What——"
"Yes, and I will too," cried Mrs. Bindle, interpreting the farmer's strangeness of manner as indicative of fear. "Mad bulls are always shot."
The farmer focussed his gaze upon Mrs. Bindle, asif she belonged to a new species. His anger had vanished. He was overcome by surprise that anyone should be so ignorant of bulls and their ways as to believe Oscar mad.
"Why, ma'am, Oscar's no more mad than you or me. He's just a bit fresh. Most times he's as gentle as a lamb."
"Don't talk to me about lambs," cried Mrs. Bindle, now thoroughly roused. "With my own eyes I saw it chasing Mr. Hearty across the field. It's a wonder he wasn't killed. I shall insist upon the animal being destroyed."
The farmer turned to Bindle, as if for an explanation of such strange views upon bulls in general and Oscar in particular.
"Oscar's all right, Lizzie," said Bindle pacifically. "'E only wanted to play tag with 'Earty."
"You be quiet!" cried Mrs. Bindle. She felt that she already had the enemy well beaten and in terror of prosecution.
"I suppose," she continued, turning once more to Mr. Timkins, "you want to hide the fact that you're keeping a mad bull until you can turn it into beef and send it to market; but——"
"Turn Oscar into beef!" roared the farmer. "Why, God dang my boots, ma'am, you're crazy! I wouldn't sell Oscar for a thousand pounds."
"I thought so," said Mrs. Bindle, looking across at Mr. Hearty, who was feeling intensely uncomfortable, "and people are to be chased about the country and murdered just because you won't——"
"But dang it, ma'am! there isn't a bull like Oscar for twenty miles round. Last year I had—let me see, how many calves——"
"Don't be disgusting," she cried, whilst Mr. Hearty turned his head aside, and coughed modestly into his right hand.
Mr. Timkins gazed from one to the other in sheer amazement, whilst Bindle, who had so man[oe]uvred as to place himself behind Mrs. Bindle, caught the farmer's eye and tapped his forehead significantly.
The simple action seemed to have a magical effect upon Mr. Timkins. His anger disappeared and his customary bluff geniality returned.
He acknowledged Bindle's signal with a wink, then he turned to Mrs. Bindle.
"You see, ma'am, this is all my land, and I let the bishop have his camp——"
"That doesn't excuse you for keeping a mad bull," was the uncompromising retort. The life of her hero had been endangered, and Mrs. Bindle was not to be placated by words.
"But Oscar ain't mad," protested the farmer, taking off his hat and mopping his forehead with a large coloured-handkerchief he had drawn from his tail-pocket. "I tell you he's no more mad than what I am."
"And I tell you he is," she retorted, with all the assurance of one thoroughly versed in the ways of bulls.
"You see, it's like this here, mum," he said soothingly, intent upon placating one who was not "quite allthere," as he would have expressed it. "It's all through the wind gettin' round to the sou'west. If it hadn't been for that——"
"Don't talk to me about such rubbish," she interrupted scornfully. "I wonder you don't say it's because there's a new moon. I'm not a fool, although I haven't lived all my life on a farm."
The farmer looked about him helplessly. Then he made another effort.
"You see, ma'am, when the wind's in the sou'west, Oscar gets a whiff o' them cows in the home——"
"How dare you!" The colour of Mrs. Bindle's cheeks transcended anything that Bindle had ever seen. "How dare you speak to me! How—you coarse—you—you disgusting beast!"
At the sight of Mrs. Bindle's blazing eyes and heaving chest, the farmer involuntarily retreated a step.
Several times he blinked his eyes in rapid succession.
Mr. Hearty turned and concentrated his gaze upon what the old man had described as "that there muck 'eap."
"Bindle!" cried Mrs. Bindle. "Will you stand by and let that man insult me? He's a coarse, low——" Her voice shook with suppressed passion. Mr. Hearty drew out his handkerchief and coughed into it.
For several seconds Mrs. Bindle stood glaring at the farmer, then, with a sudden movement, she turned and walked away with short, jerky steps of indignation.
Mr. Hearty continued to gaze at the muck heap, whilst the farmer watched the retreating form of Mrs.Bindle, as if she had been a double-headed calf, or a three-legged duck.
When she had disappeared from sight round the corner of the house, he once more mopped his forehead with the coloured-handkerchief, then, thrusting it into his pocket, he resumed his hat with the air of a man who has escaped from some deadly peril.
"It's all that there Jim," he muttered. "I told him to look out for the wind and move them cows; but will he? Not if he knows it, dang him."
"Don't you take it to 'eart," said Bindle cheerily. "It ain't no good to start back-chat with my missis."
"But she said Oscar ought to be shot," grumbled the farmer. "Shoot Oscar!" he muttered to himself.
"You see, it's like this 'ere, religion's a funny thing. When it gets 'old of you, it either makes you mild, like 'Earty 'ere, or it makes you as 'ot as onions, like my missis. She don't mean no 'arm; but when you gone 'ead first over a stile, an' your sort o' shy about yer legs, it don't make you feel you wants to give yer sugar ticket to the bull wot did it."
"The—the strawberries, Joseph," Mr. Hearty broke in upon the conversation, addressing Bindle rather than the farmer, of whom he stood in some awe.
"Ah! dang it, o' course, them strawberries," cried the farmer, who had been advised by Patrol-leader Smithers that a potential customer would call. "Come along this way," and he led the way to a large barn, still mumbling under his breath.
"This way," he cried again, as he entered and pointedto where stood row upon row of baskets full of strawberries, heavily scenting the air. Hearty walked across the barn, picked up a specimen of the fruit and bit it.
"What price are you asking for them?" he enquired.
"Fourpence," was the retort.
"I'm afraid," said Mr. Hearty with all the instincts of the chafferer, "that I could not pay more than——"
"Then go to hell!" roared the farmer. "You get off my farm or—or I'll let Oscar loose," he added with inspiration.
For the last quarter of an hour he had restrained himself with difficulty; but Mr. Hearty's bargaining instinct had been the spark that had ignited the volcano of his wrath.
Mr. Hearty started back violently; stumbled against a large stone and sat down with a suddenness that caused his teeth to rattle.
"Off you go!" yelled the farmer, purple with rage. "Here Jim," he shouted; but Mr. Hearty waited for nothing more. Picking himself up, he fled blindly, he knew not whither. It sufficed him that it should be away from that muscular arm which was gripping a formidable-looking crop.
Bindle turned to follow, feeling that his own popularity had been submerged in the negative qualities of his wife and brother-in-law; but the farmer put out a restraining hand.
"Not you," he said, "you come up to the house. I can give you a mug of ale the like of which you haven't tasted for years. I'm all upset, I am," he added, as if to excuse his outburst. "I'm not forgettin' that itwas you that came an' told me about Oscar. He might a-done a middlin' bit o' damage." Then, suddenly recollecting the cause of all the trouble, he added, "Dang that old Jim! It was them cows what did it. Shoot Oscar!"