I
"It's come, mate."
"Go away, we're not up yet," cried the voice of Mrs. Bindle from inside the tent.
"It's come, mate," repeated a lugubrious voice, which Bindle recognised as that of the tall, despondent man with the stubbly chin.
"Who's come?" demanded Bindle, sitting up and throwing the bedclothes from his chest, revealing a washed-out pink flannel night-shirt.
"The blinkin' field-kitchen," came the voice from without. "Comin' to 'ave a look at it?"
"Righto, ole sport. I'll be out in two ticks."
"I won't have that man coming up to the tent when—when we're not up," said Mrs. Bindle angrily.
"It's all right, Lizzie," reassured Bindle, "'e can't see through—an' 'e ain't that sort o' cove neither," he added.
Mrs. Bindle murmured an angry retort.
Five minutes later Bindle, with trailing braces, left the tent and joined the group of men and childrengazing at a battered object that was strangely reminiscent of Stevenson's first steam-engine.
"That's it," said the man with the stubbly chin, whose name was Barnes, known to his intimates as "'Arry," turning to greet Bindle and jerking a dirt-grimed thumb in the direction of the travelling field-kitchen.
Dubious heads were shaken. Many of the men had already had practical experience of the temperament possessed by an army field-kitchen.
"At Givenchy I see one of 'em cut in 'alf by a 'Crump,'" muttered a little dark-haired man, with red-rimmed eyes that seemed to blink automatically. "It wasn't 'alf a sight, neither," he added.
"Who's goin' to stoke?" demanded Barnes, rubbing his chin affectionately with the pad of his right thumb.
"'Im wot's been the wickedest," suggested Bindle.
They were in no mood for lightness, however. None had yet breakfasted, and all had suffered the acute inconvenience of camping under the supreme direction of a benign but misguided cleric.
"Wot the 'ell I come 'ere for, I don't know," said a man with a moist, dirty face. "Might a gone to Southend with my brother-in-law, I might," he added reminiscently.
"You wasn't 'alf a mug, was you?" remarked a wiry little man in a singlet and khaki trousers.
"You're right there, mate," was the response. "Blinkin' barmy I must a' been."
"I was goin' to Yarmouth," confided a third, "onlymy missis got this ruddy camp on the streamin' brain. Jawed about it till I was sick and give in for peace an' quietness. Now, look at me."
"It's all the ruddy Government, a-startin' these 'ere stutterin' camps," complained a red-headed man with the face of a Bolshevist.
"They 'as races at Yarmouth, too," grumbled the previous speaker.
"Not till September," put in another.
"August," said the first speaker aggressively, and the two proceeded fiercely to discuss the date of the Yarmouth Races.
When the argument had gone as far as it could without blows, and had quieted all other conversation, Bindle slipped away from the group and returned to the tent to find Mrs. Bindle busy preparing breakfast.
He smacked his lips with the consciousness that of all the campers he was the best fed.
"Gettin' a move on," he cried cheerily, and once more he smacked his lips.
"Pity you can't do something to help," she retorted, "instead of loafing about with that pack of lazy scamps."
Bindle retired to the interior of the tent and proceeded with his toilet.
"That's right, take no notice when I speak to you," she snapped.
"Oh, my Gawd!" he groaned. "It's scratch all night an' scrap all day. It's an 'oliday all right."
He strove to think of something tactful to say; but at the moment nothing seemed to suggest itself, and Mrs. Bindle viciously broke three eggs into the frying-pan in which bacon was already sizzling, like an energetic wireless-plant.
The savoury smell of the frying eggs and bacon reached Bindle inside the tent, inspiring him with feelings of benevolence and good-will.
"I'm sorry, Lizzie," he said contritely, "but I didn't 'ear you."
"You heard well enough what I said," was Mrs. Bindle's rejoinder, as she broke a fourth egg into the pan.
"The kitchen's come," he said pleasantly.
"Oh, has it?" Mrs. Bindle did not raise her eyes from the frying-pan she was holding over the scout-fire.
For a minute or two Bindle preserved silence, wondering what topic he possessed that would soothe her obvious irritation.
"They say the big tent's down at the station," he remarked, repeating a rumour he had heard when engaged in examining the field-kitchen.
Mrs. Bindle vouchsafed no reply.
"Did you sleep well, Lizzie?" he enquired.
"Sleep!" she repeated scornfully. "How was I to sleep on rough straw like that. I ache all over."
He saw that he had made a false move in introducing the subject of sleep.
"The milk hasn't come," she announced presently with the air of one making a statement she knewwould be unpopular. Bindle hated tea without milk.
"You don't say so," he remarked. "I must 'ave a word with Daisy. She didn't oughter be puttin' on 'er bloomin' frills."
"The paraffin's got into the sugar," was the next bombshell.
"Well, well," said Bindle. "I suppose you can't 'ave everythink as you would like it."
"Another time, perhaps you'll get up yourself and help with the meals."
"I ain't much at them sort o' things," he replied, conscious that Mrs. Bindle's anger was rising.
"You leave me to do everything, as if I was your slave instead of your wife."
Bindle remained silent. He realized that there were times when it was better to bow to the storm.
"Ain't it done yet?" he enquired, looking anxiously at the frying-pan.
"That's all you care about, your stomach," she cried, her voice rising hysterically. "So long as you've got plenty to eat, nothing else matters. I wonder I stand it. I—I——"
Bindle's eyes were still fixed anxiously upon the frying-pan, which, in her excitement, Mrs. Bindle was moving from side to side of the fire.
"Look out!" he cried, "you'll upset it, an' I'm as 'ungry as an 'awk."
Suddenly the light of madness sprang into her eyes.
"Oh! you are, are you? Well, get somebody else to cook your meals," and with that she inverted thefrying-pan, tipping the contents into the fire. As Bindle sprang up from the box on which he had been sitting, she rubbed the frying-pan into the ashes, making a hideous mess of the burning-wood, eggs and bacon.
With a scream that was half a sob, she fled to the shelter of the tent, leaving Bindle to gaze down upon the wreck of what had been intended for his breakfast.
Picking up a stick, charred at one end, he began to rake among the embers in the vague hope of being able to disinter from the wreck something that was eatable; but Mrs. Bindle's action in rubbing the frying-pan into the ashes had removed from the contents all semblance of food. With a sigh he rose to his feet to find the bishop gazing down at him.
"Had a mishap?" he asked pleasantly.
"You've 'it it, sir," grinned Bindle. "Twenty years ago," he added in a whisper.
"Twenty years ago!" murmured the bishop, a puzzled expression on his face. "What was twenty years ago?"
"The little mis'ap wot you was talkin' about, sir," explained Bindle, still in a whisper. "I married Mrs. B. then, an' she gets a bit jumpy now and again."
"I see," whispered the bishop, "she upset the breakfast."
"Well, sir, you can put it that way; but personally myself, I think it was the breakfast wot upset 'er."
"And you've got nothing to eat?"
"Not even a tin to lick out, sir."
"Dear me, dear me!" cried the bishop, genuinely distressed, and then, suddenly catching sight of Barnes's lugubrious form appearing from behind a neighbouring tent, he hailed him.
Barnes approached with all the deliberation and unconcern of a pronounced fatalist.
"Our friend here has had a mishap," said the bishop, indicating the fire. "Will you go round to my tent and get some eggs and bacon. Hurry up, there's a good fellow."
Barnes turned on a deliberate heel, whilst Bindle and the bishop set themselves to the reconstruction of the scout-fire.
A quarter of an hour later, when Mrs. Bindle peeped out of the tent, she saw the bishop and Bindle engaged in frying eggs and bacon; whilst Barnes stood gazing down at them with impassive pessimism.
Rising to stretch his cramped legs, the bishop caught sight of Mrs. Bindle.
"Good morning, Mrs. Bindle. I hope your headache is better. Mr. Bindle has been telling me that he has had a mishap with your breakfast, so I'm helping him to cook it. I hope you won't mind if I join you in eating it."
"Now that's wot I call tack," muttered Bindle under his breath, "but my! ain't 'e a prize liar, 'im a parson too."
Mrs. Bindle came forward, an expression on her face that was generally kept for the Rev. Mr. MacFie, of the Alton Road Chapel.
"It's very kind of you, sir. I'm sorry Bindle let you help with the cooking."
"But I'm going to help with the eating," cried the bishop gaily.
"But it's not fit work for a——"
"I know what you're going to say," said the bishop, "and I don't want you to say it. Here we are all friends, helping one another, and giving a meal when the hungry appears. For this morning I'm going to fill the rôle of the hungry. I wonder if you'll make the tea, Mrs. Bindle, Mr. Bindle tells me your tea is wonderful."
"Oh, my Gawd!" murmured Bindle, casting up his eyes.
With what was almost a smile, Mrs. Bindle proceeded to do the bishop's bidding.
During the meal Bindle was silent, leaving the conversation to Mrs. Bindle and the bishop. By the time he had finished his third cup of tea, Mrs. Bindle was almost gay.
The bishop talked household-management, touched on religion and Christian charity, slid off again to summer-camps, thence on to marriage, babies and the hundred and one other things dear to a woman's heart.
When he finally rose to go, Bindle saw in Mrs. Bindle's eyes a smile that almost reached her lips.
"I hope that if ever you honour us again, sir, you will let me know——"
"No, Mrs. Bindle, it's the unexpected that delights me, and I'm going to be selfish. Thank you for yourhospitality and our pleasant chat," and with that he was gone.
"Well, I'm blowed!" muttered Bindle as he gazed after the figure of the retreating bishop, "an' me always thinkin' that you 'ad to 'ave an 'ymn an' a tin o' salmon to make love to Mrs. B."
"And now, I suppose, you'll go off and leave me to do all the washing-up. Butter wouldn't melt in your mouth when the bishop was here. You couldn't say a word before him," she snapped, and she proceeded to gather together the dishes.
"No," muttered Bindle as he fetched some sticks for the fire. "'E can talk tack all right; but when you wants it to last, it's better to 'ave a tin o' salmon to fall back on."
That morning Daisy had a serious rival in the field-kitchen, which like her was an unknown quantity, capable alike of ministering to the happiness of all, or of withholding that which was expected of it.
It was soon obvious to the bishop that the field-kitchen was going to prove as great a source of anxiety as Daisy. No one manifested any marked inclination to act as stoker. Apart from this, the bishop had entirely forgotten the important item of fuel, having omitted to order either coal or coke. In addition there was a marked suspicion, on the part of the wives, of what they regarded as a new-fangled way of cooking a meal. Many of them had already heard of army field-kitchens from their husbands, and were filled with foreboding.
It took all the bishop's tact and enthusiasm to modify their obvious antagonism.
"I ain't a-goin' to trust anythink o' mine in a rusty old thing like that," said a fat woman with a grimy skin and scanty hair.
"Same 'ere, they didn't ought to 'ave let us come down without making proper pervision," complained a second, seizing an opportunity when the bishop's head was in the stoke-hole to utter the heresy.
"Bless me!" he said, withdrawing his head, unconscious that there was a black smudge on the right episcopal cheek. "It will take a dreadful lot of fuel. Now, who will volunteer to stoke?" turning his most persuasive smile upon the group of men, who had been keenly interested in his examination of the contrivance.
The men shuffled their feet, looked at one another, as if each expected to find in another the spirit of sacrifice lacking in himself.
Their disinclination was so marked that the bishop's face fell, until he suddenly caught sight of Bindle approaching.
"Ah!" he cried. "Here's the man I want. Now, Bindle," he called out, "you saved us from the bull, how would you like to become stoker?"
"Surely I ain't as bad as all that, sir," grinned Bindle.
"I'm not speaking professionally," laughed the bishop, who had already ingratiated himself with the men because he did not "talk like a ruddy parson." "I want somebody to take charge of this field-kitchen," he continued. "I'd do it myself, only I've got sucha lot of other things to see to. I'll borrow some coal from Mr. Timkins."
Bindle gazed dubiously at the unattractive mass of iron, dabbed with the weather-worn greens and browns of camouflage and war.
"It's quite simple," said the bishop. "You light the fire here, that's the oven, and you boil things here, and—we shall soon get it going."
"I don't mind stokin', sir," said Bindle at length; "but I ain't a-goin' to take charge of 'oo's dinner's wot. If there's goin' to be any scrappin' with the ladies, well, I ain't in it."
Finally it was arranged that Bindle should start the fire and get the field-kitchen into working order, and that the putting-in the oven and taking-out again of the various dishes should be left to the discretion of the campers themselves, who were to be responsible for the length of time required to cook their own particular meals.
With astonishing energy, the bishop set the children to collect wood, and soon Bindle, throwing himself into the work with enthusiasm, had the fire well alight. There had arrived from the farm a good supply of coal and coke.
"You ain't 'alf 'it it unlucky, mate," said the man with the bristly chin. "'E ought to 'ave 'ired a cook," he added. "We come 'ere to enjoy ourselves, not to be blinkin' stokers. That's like them ruddy parsons," he added, "always wantin' somethin' for nuffin."
"'Ere, come along, cheerful," cried Bindle, "give me a 'and with this coke," and, a minute later, thelugubrious Barnes found himself sweating like a horse, and shovelling fuel into the kitchen's voracious maw.
"That's not the way!"
The man straightened his back and, with one hand on the spade, gazed at Mrs. Bindle, who had approached unobserved. With the grubby thumb of his other hand he rubbed his chin, giving to his unprepossessing features a lopsided appearance.
"Wot ain't the way, missis?" he asked with the air of one quite prepared to listen to reason.
"The coke should be damped," was the response, "and you're putting in too much."
"But we want it to burn up," he protested.
Mrs. Bindle ostentatiously turned upon him a narrow back.
"Youought to know better, at least, Bindle," she snapped, and proceeded to give him instruction in the art of encouraging a fire.
"You'd better take some out," she said.
"'Ere ole sport," cried Bindle, "give us——" he stopped suddenly. His assistant had disappeared.
"You mustn't let anyone put anything in until the oven's hot," continued Mrs. Bindle, "and you mustn't open the door too often. You'd better fix a time when they can bring the food, say eleven o'clock."
"Early doors threepence extra?" queried Bindle.
"We're going to have sausage-toad-in-the-hole, and mind you don't burn it."
"I'll watch it as if it was my own cheeild," vowed Bindle.
"If the bishop knew you as I know you, he wouldn'thave trusted you with this," said Mrs. Bindle, as she walked away with indrawn lips and head in the air, stepping with the self-consciousness of a bantam that feels its spurs.
"Blowed if she don't think I volunteered for the bloomin' job," he muttered, as he ceased extracting pieces of coke from the furnace. "Well, if their dinner ain't done it's their fault, an' if it's overdone it ain't mine," and with that he drew his pipe from his pocket and filled it.
"No luck," he cried, as a grey-haired old woman with the dirt of other years on her face hobbled up with a pie-dish. "Doors ain't open yet."
"But it's an onion pie," grumbled the old dame, "and onions takes a lot o' cookin'."
"Can't 'elp it," grinned Bindle. "Doors ain't open till eleven."
"But——" began the woman.
"Nothin', doin' mother," said the obstinate Bindle. "You see this 'ere is a religious kitchen. It's a different sort from an ordinary blasphemious kitchen."
On the stroke of eleven Mrs. Bindle appeared with a large brown pie-dish, the sight of which made Bindle's mouth water.
"Now then," he cried, "line up for the bakin'-queue. Shillin' a 'ead an' all bad nuts changed. Oh! no, you don't," he cried, as one woman proffered a basin. "I'm stoker, not cook. You shoves 'em in yourself, an' you fetches 'em when you wants 'em. If there's any scrappin' to be done, I'll be umpire."
One by one the dishes were inserted in the oven, and one by one their owners retired, a feeling of greater confidence in their hearts now that they could prepare a proper dinner. The men went off to get a drink, and soon Bindle was alone.
During the first half-hour Mrs. Bindle paid three separate visits to the field-kitchen. To her it was a new and puzzling contrivance, and she had no means of gauging the heat of the oven. She regarded it distrustfully and, on the occasion of the second visit, gave a special word of warning to Bindle.
At 11.40 Barnes returned with a large black bottle, which he held out to Bindle with an invitation to "'ave a drink."
Bindle removed the cork and put the bottle to his lips, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down joyously.
"Ah!" he cried, as he at length lowered the bottle and his head at the same time. "That's the stuff to give 'em," and reluctantly he handed back the bottle to its owner, who hastily withdrew at the sight of Mrs. Bindle approaching.
When she had taken her departure, Bindle began to feel drowsy. The sun was hot, the air was still, and the world was very good to live in. Still, there was the field-kitchen to be looked after.
For some time he struggled against the call of sleep; but do what he would, his head continued to nod, and his eyelids seemed weighted with lead.
Suddenly he had an inspiration. If he stoked-up the field-kitchen, it would look after itself, and hecould have just the "forty winks" his nature craved.
With feverish energy he set to work with the shovel, treating the two stacks of coal and coke with entire impartiality. Then, when he had filled the furnace, he closed the door with the air of the Roman sentry relieving himself of responsibility by setting a burglar-alarm. Getting well out of the radius of the heat caused by the furnace, he composed himself to slumber behind the heap of coke.
Suddenly he was aroused from a dream in which he stood on the deck of a wrecked steamer, surrounded by steam which was escaping with vicious hisses from the damaged boilers.
He sat up and looked about him. The air seemed white with vapour, in and out of which two figures could be seen moving. He struggled to his feet and looked about him.
A few yards away he saw Mrs. Bindle engaged in throwing water at the field-kitchen, and then dashing back quickly to escape the smother of steam that resulted. The bishop, with a bucket and a pink-and-blue jug, was dashing water on to the monster's back.
Bindle gazed at the scene in astonishment, then, making a detour, he approached from the opposite side, to see what it was that had produced the crisis. Just at that moment, the bishop decided that the pail had been sufficiently lightened by the use of the pink-and-blue jug to enable him to lift it.
A moment later Bindle was the centre of a cascade of water and a mantle of spray.
"'Ere! wot the 'ell?" he bawled.
The bishop dodged round to the other side and apologised profusely, explaining how Mrs. Bindle had discovered that the field-kitchen had become overheated and that between them they were trying to lower its temperature.
"Yes; but I ain't over'eated," protested Bindle.
"You put too much coal in, Bindle; the place would have been red-hot in half an hour."
"Well; but look at all them dinners that——"
"Don't talk to him, my lord," said Mrs. Bindle, who from a fellow-camper had learned how a bishop should be addressed. "He's done it on purpose."
"No, no, Mrs. Bindle," said the bishop genially. "I'm sure he didn't mean to do it. It's really my fault."
And Mrs. Bindle left it at that.
From that point, however, she took charge of the operations, the bishop and Bindle working under her direction. The news that the field-kitchen was on fire, conveyed to their parents by the children, had brought up the campers in full-force and at the double.
There had been a rush for the oven; but Mrs. Bindle soon showed that she had the situation well in hand, and the sight of the bishop doing her bidding had a reassuring effect.
Under her supervision, each dish and basin was withdrawn, and first aid administered to such as required it. Those that were burnt, were tended with a skill and expedition that commanded the admiration of every housewife present. They were content to leavematters in hands that they recognised were more capable than their own.
When the salvage work was ended, and the dishes and basins replaced in an oven that had been reduced to a suitable temperature, the bishop mopped his brow, whilst Mrs. Bindle stood back and gazed at the field-kitchen as St. George might have regarded the conquered dragon.
Her face was flushed, and her hands were grimed; but in her eyes was a keen satisfaction. For once in her life she had occupied the centre of something larger than a domestic stage.
"My friends," cried the bishop, always ready to say a few words or point the moral, "we are all under a very great obligation to our capable friend Mrs. Bindle, a veritable Martha among women;" he indicated Mrs. Bindle with a motion of what was probably the dirtiest episcopal hand in the history of the Church. "She has saved the situation and, what is more, she has saved our dinners. Now," he cried boyishly, "I call for three cheers for Mrs. Bindle."
And they were given with a heartiness that caused Mrs. Bindle a queer sensation at the back of her throat.
The campers flocked round her and found that she whom they had regarded as "uppish," could be almost gracious. Anyhow, she had saved their dinners.
It was Mrs. Bindle's hour.
"Fancy 'im a-callin' 'er Martha, when 'er name's Lizzie," muttered Bindle, as he strolled off. He had taken no very prominent part in the proceedings—he was a little ashamed of the part he had played in what had proved almost a tragedy.
That day the Tired Workers dined because of Mrs. Bindle, and they knew it. Various were the remarks exchanged among the groups collected outside the tents.
"She didn't 'alf order the bishop about," remarked to his wife the man who should have gone to Yarmouth.
"Any way, if it 'adn't been for 'er you'd 'ave 'ad cinders instead o' baked chops and onions for yer dinner," was the rejoinder, as his wife, a waspish little woman, rubbed a piece of bread round her plate. "She ain't got much to learn about a kitchen stove, I'll say that for 'er," she added, with the air of one who sees virtue in unaccustomed places.
That afternoon when Bindle was lying down inside the tent, endeavouring to digest some fifty per cent. more sausage-toad-in-the-hole than he was licensed to carry, he was aroused from a doze by the sound of voices without.
"We brought 'em for you, missis." It was the man with the stubbly chin speaking.
"Must 'ave made you a bit firsty, all that 'eat," remarked another voice.
Bindle sat up. Events were becoming interesting. He crept to the opening of the tent and slightly pulled aside the flap.
"Best dinner we've 'ad yet." The speaker was the man who had seen a field-kitchen dissected atGivenchy. He was just in the line of Bindle's vision.
Pulling the flap still further aside, he saw half-a-dozen men standing awkwardly before Mrs. Bindle who, with a bottle of Guinness' stout in either hand, was actually smiling.
"It's very kind of you," she said. "Thank you very much."
In his astonishment, Bindle dropped the flap, and the picture was blotted out.
"Come an' 'ave a look at Daisy," he heard the man with the stubbly chin say. It was obviously his conception of terminating an awkward interview.
"Good day," he heard a voice mumble, to which Mrs. Bindle replied with almost cordiality.
Bindle scrambled back to his mattress, just as Mrs. Bindle pulled aside the flap of the tent and entered, a bottle still in either hand. At the sight, Bindle became aware of a thirst which until then had slumbered.
"I can do with a drop o' Guinness," he cried cheerily, his eyes upon the bottles. "Nice o' them coves to think of us."
"It was me, not you," was Mrs. Bindle's rejoinder, as she stepped across to her mattress.
"But you don't drink beer, Lizzie," he protested. "You're temperance. I'll drink 'em for you."
"If you do, I'll kill you, Bindle." And the intensity with which she uttered the threat decided him that it would be better to leave the brace of Guinness severely alone; but he was sorely puzzled.
II
That evening, in the sanded tap-room of The Trowel and Turtle, the male summer-campers expressed themselves for the twentieth time uncompromisingly upon the subject of bishops and summer-camps. They were "fed up to the ruddy neck," and would give not a little to be back in London, where it was possible to find a pub "without gettin' a blinkin' blister on your stutterin' 'eel."
It was true the field-kitchen had arrived, that they had eaten their first decent meal, and there was every reason to believe that the marquee was at the station; still they were "sick of the whole streamin' business."
To add to their troubles the landlord of The Trowel and Turtle expressed grave misgivings as to the weather. The glass was dropping, and there was every indication of rain.
"Rain'll jest put the scarlet lid on this blinkin' beano," was the opinion expressed by one of the party and endorsed by all, as, with the landlord's advice to see that everything was made snug for the night, they trooped out of the comfortable tap-room and turned their heads towards the Summer-Camp.
At the entrance of the meadow they were met by Patrol-leader Smithers.
"You must slack the ropes of your tents," he announced, "there may be rain. Only just slack thema bit; don't overdo it, or they'll come down on the top of you if the wind gets up."
"Oh crikey!" moaned a long man with a straggling moustache, as he watched Patrol-leader Smithers march briskly down the lane.
For some moments the men gazed at one another in consternation; each visualised the desperate state of discomfort that would ensue as the result of wind and rain.
"Let's go an' 'ave a look at Daisy," said Bindle inconsequently.
His companions stared at him in surprise. A shrill voice in the distance calling "'Enery" seemed to lend to them decision, particularly to 'Enery himself. They turned and strolled over to where Daisy was engaged in preparing the morrow's milk supply. She had been milked and was content.
"Look 'ere, mates," began Bindle, having assured himself that there were no eavesdroppers, "we're all fed up with Summer-Camps for tired workers—that so?"
"Up to the blinkin' neck," said a big man with a dirt-grimed skin, voicing the opinion of all.
"There ain't no pubs," said a burly man with black whiskers, "no pictures, can't put a shillin' on an 'orse, can't do anythink——"
"But watch this ruddy cow," broke in the man with the stubbly chin.
"Well, well, p'raps you're right, only I couldn't 'ave said it 'alf as politely," said Bindle, with a grin."We're all for good ole Fulham where a cove can lay the dust. Ain't that so, mates?"
The men expressed their agreement according to the intensity of their feelings.
"Well, listen," said Bindle, "an' I'll tell you." They drew nearer and listened.
Twenty minutes later, when the voice demanding 'Enery became too insistent to be denied, the party broke up, and there was in the eyes of all that which spoke of hope.
III
That night, as Patrol-leader Smithers had foretold, there arose a great wind which smote vigorously the tents of the Surrey Summer-Camp for Tired Workers. For a time the tents withstood the fury of the blast; they swayed and bent before it, putting up a vigorous defence however. Presently a shriek told of the first catastrophe; then followed another and yet another, and soon the darkness was rent by cries, shrieks, and lamentations, whilst somewhere near the Bindles' tent rose the voice of one crying from a wilderness of canvas for 'Enery.
Mrs. Bindle was awakened by the loud slatting of the tent-flap. Pandemonium seemed to have broken loose. The wind howled and whistled through the tent-ropes, the rain swept against the canvas sides with an ominous "swish," the pole bent as the tent swayed from side to side.
"Bindle," she cried, "get up!"
"'Ullo!" he responded sleepily. He had taken the precaution of not removing his trousers, a circumstance that was subsequently used as evidence against him.
"The tent's coming down," she cried. "Get up and hold the prop."
As she spoke, she scrambled from beneath the blankets and seized the brown mackintosh, which she kept ready to hand in case of accidents. Wrapping this about her, she clutched at the bending pole, whilst Bindle struggled out from among the bedclothes.
Scrambling to his feet, he tripped over the tin-bath. Clutching wildly as he fell, he got Mrs. Bindle just above the knees in approved rugger style.
With a scream she relinquished the pole to free her legs from Bindle's frenzied clutch and, losing her footing, she came down on top of him.
"Leave go," she cried.
"Get up orf my stomach then," he gasped.
At that moment, the wind gave a tremendous lift to the tent. Mrs. Bindle was clutching wildly at the base of the pole, Bindle was striving to wriggle from beneath her. The combination of forces caused the tent to sway wildly. A moment later, it seemed to start angrily from the ground, and she fell over backwards, whilst a mass of sopping canvas descended, stifling alike her screams and Bindle's protests that he was being killed.
It took Bindle nearly five minutes to find his wayout from the heavy folds of wet canvas. Then he had to go back into the darkness to fetch Mrs. Bindle. In order to effect his own escape, Bindle had cut the tent-ropes. Just as he had found Mrs. Bindle, a wild gust of wind entered behind him, lifted the tent bodily and bore it off.
The suddenness of the catastrophe seemed to strike Mrs. Bindle dumb. To be sitting in the middle of a meadow at dead of night, clothed only in a nightdress and a mackintosh, with the rain drenching down, seemed to her to border upon the indecent.
"You there, Lizzie?" came the voice of Bindle, like the shout of one hailing a drowning person.
"Where's the tent?" demanded Mrs. Bindle inconsequently.
"Gawd knows!" he shouted back. "Probably it's at Yarmouth by now. 'Oly ointment," he yelled.
"What's the matter?"
"I trodden on the marjarine."
"It's all we've got," she cried, her housewifely fears triumphing over even the stress of wind and rain and her own intolerable situation.
From the surrounding darkness came shouts and enquiries as disaster followed disaster. Heaving masses of canvas laboured and, one by one, produced figures scanty of garment and full of protest; but mercifully unseen.
Women cried, children shrieked, and men swore volubly.
"I'm sittin' in somethink sticky," cried Bindle presently.
"You've upset the marmalade. Why can't you keep still?"
Keep still! Bindle was searching for the two bottles of Guinness' stout he knew to be somewhere among the débris, unconscious that Mrs. Bindle had packed them away in the tin-bath.
As the other tents disgorged their human contents, the pandemonium increased. In every key, appeals were being made for news of lost units.
By the side of the tin-bath Mrs. Bindle was praying for succour and the lost bell-tent, which had sped towards the east as if in search of the wise men, leaving all beneath it naked to the few stars that peeped from the scudding clouds above, only to hide their faces a moment later as if shocked at what they had seen.
Suddenly a brilliant light flashed across the meadow and began to bob about like a hundred candle power will-o'-the-wisp. It dodged restlessly from place to place, as if in search of something.
Behind a large acetylene motor-lamp, walked Patrol-leader Smithers, searching for one single erect bell-tent—there was none.
Shrieks that had been of terror now became cries of alarm. Forms that had struggled valiantly to escape from the billowing canvas, now began desperately to wriggle back again to the seclusion that modesty demanded. With heads still protruding they regarded the scene, praying that the rudeness of the wind would not betray them.
Taking immediate charge, Patrol-leader Smitherscollected the men and gave his orders in a high treble, and his orders were obeyed.
By the time the dawn had begun nervously to finger the east, sufficient tents to shelter the women and children had been re-erected, the cause of the trouble discovered, and the men rebuked for an injudicious slacking of the ropes.
"I ought to have seen to it myself," remarked Patrol-leader Smithers with the air of one who knows he has to deal with fools. "You'll be all right now," he added reassuringly.
"All right now," growled the man with the stubbly chin as he looked up at the grey scudding clouds and then down at the rain-soaked grass. "We would if we was ducks, or ruddy boy scouts; but we're men, we are—on 'oliday," he added with inspiration, and he withdrew to his tent, conscious that he had voiced the opinion of all.
V
Later that morning three carts, laden with luggage, rumbled their way up to West Boxton railway-station, followed by a straggling stream of men, women, and children. Overhead heavy rainclouds swung threateningly across the sky. Men were smoking their pipes contentedly, for theirs was the peace which comes of full knowledge. Behind them they had left a litter of bell-tents and the conviction that Daisy in allprobability would explode before dinner-time. What cared they? A few hours hence they would be once more in their known and understood Fulham.
As they reached the station they saw two men struggling with a grey mass that looked like a deflated balloon.
The men hailed the party and appealed for help.
"It's the ruddy marquee," cried a voice.
"The blinkin' tent," cried another, not to be outdone in speculative intelligence.
"You can take it back with you," cried one of the men from the truck.
"We're demobbed, ole son," said Bindle cheerily. "We've struck."
"No more blinkin' camps for me," said the man with the stubbly chin.
"'Ear, 'ear," came from a number of voices.
"Are we down-hearted?" enquired a voice.
"Nooooooooo!"
And the voices of women and children were heard in the response.
Some half an hour later, as the train steamed out of the station, Bindle called out to the porters:
"Tell the bishop not to forget to milk Daisy."
"Well, Mrs. B.," said Bindle that evening as he lighted his pipe after an excellent supper of sausages, fried onions, and mashed potatoes, "you 'ad yer 'oliday."
"I believe you was at the bottom of those tents coming down, Bindle," she cried with conviction.
"Well, you was underneath, wasn't you?" was the response, and Bindle winked knowingly at the white jug with the pink butterfly on the spout.
I
"Your dinner's in the large black saucepan and the potatoes in the blue one. Empty the stewed steak into the yellow pie-dish and the potatoes into the blue vegetable dish and pour water into the saucepans afterwards I've gone to bed—I am feeling ill."E. B."Don't forget to put water into the empty saucepans or they will burn."
"Your dinner's in the large black saucepan and the potatoes in the blue one. Empty the stewed steak into the yellow pie-dish and the potatoes into the blue vegetable dish and pour water into the saucepans afterwards I've gone to bed—I am feeling ill.
"E. B.
"Don't forget to put water into the empty saucepans or they will burn."
Bindle glanced across at the stove as if to verify Mrs. Bindle's statement, then, with lined forehead, stood gazing at the table, neatly laid for one.
"I never known Lizzie give in before," he muttered, and he walked over to the sink and proceeded to have his evening "rinse," an affair involving a considerable expenditure of soap and much blowing and splashing.
Having wiped his face and hands upon the roller-towel, he walked softly across the kitchen, opened thedoor, listened, stepped out into the passage and, finally, proceeded to tiptoe upstairs.
Outside the bedroom door he paused and listened again, his ear pressed against the panel. There was no sound.
With the stealth of a burglar he turned the handle, pushed open the door some eighteen inches and put his head round the corner.
Mrs. Bindle was lying in bed on her back, her face void of all expression, whilst with each indrawn breath there was a hard, metallic sound.
Bindle wriggled the rest of his body round the door-post, closing the door behind him. With ostentatious care, still tiptoeing, he crossed the room and stood by the bedside.
"Ain't you feelin' well, Lizzie?" he asked in a hoarse whisper, sufficient in itself to remind an invalid of death.
"Did you put water in the saucepans?" She asked the question without turning her head, and with the air of one who has something on her mind. The harsh rasp of her voice alarmed Bindle.
"I ain't 'ad supper yet," he said. "Is there anythink you'd like?" he enquired solicitously, still in the same depressing whisper.
"No; just leave me alone," she murmured. "Don't forget the water in the saucepans," she added a moment later.
For some seconds Bindle stood irresolute. He was convinced that something ought to be done; but just what he did not know.
"Wouldn't you like a bit o' fried fish, or—or a pork chop?" he named at a venture two of his favourite supper dishes. The fish he could buy ready fried, the chop he felt equal to cooking himself.
"Leave me alone." She turned her head aside with a feeble shudder.
"Where are you ill, Lizzie?" he enquired at length.
"Go away," she moaned, and Bindle turned, tip-toed across to the door and passed out of the room. He was conscious that the situation was beyond him.
That evening he ate his food without relish. His mind was occupied with the invalid upstairs and the problem of what he should do. He was unaccustomed to illness, either in himself or in others. His instinct was to fetch a doctor; but would she like it? It was always a little difficult to anticipate Mrs. Bindle's view of any particular action, no matter how well-intentioned.
At the conclusion of the meal, he drew his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to smoke with a view to inspiration.
Suddenly he was roused by a loud pounding overhead.
"'Oly ointment, she's fallen out!" he muttered, as he made for the door and dashed up the stairs two at a time.
As he opened the door, he found Mrs. Bindle sitting up in bed, a red flannel petticoat round her shoulders, sniffing the air like a hungry hound.
"You're burning my best saucepan," she croaked.
"I ain't, Lizzie, reelly I ain't——" Then memory came to him. He had forgotten to put water in either of the saucepans.
"I can smell burning," she persisted, "you——"
"I spilt some stoo on the stove," he lied, feeling secure in the knowledge that she could not disprove the statement.
With a groan she sank back on to her pillow.
"The place is like a pigsty. I know it," she moaned with tragic conviction.
"No, it ain't, Lizzie. I'm jest goin' to 'ave a clean-up. Wouldn't you like somethink to eat?" he enquired again, then with inspiration added, "Wot about a tin o' salmon, it'll do your breath good. I'll nip round and get one in two ticks."
But Mrs. Bindle shook her head.
For nearly a minute there was silence, during which Bindle gazed down at her helplessly.
"I'm a-goin' to fetch a doctor," he announced at length.
"Don't you dare to fetch a doctor to me."
"But if you ain't well——" he began.
"I tell you I won't have a doctor. Look——" She was interrupted by a fit of coughing which seemed almost to suffocate her. "Look at the state of the bedroom," she gasped at length.
"But wot's goin' to 'appen?" asked Bindle. "You can't——"
"It won't matter," she moaned. "If I die you'll be glad," she added, as if to leave no doubt in Bindle's mind as to her own opinion on the matter.
"No, I shouldn't. 'Ow could I get on without you?"
"Thinking of yourself as usual," was the retort.
Then, suddenly, she half-lifted herself in bed and, once more raising her head, sniffed the air suspiciously.
"I know that saucepan's burning," she said with conviction; but she sank back again, panting. The burning of a saucepan seemed a thing of ever-lessening importance.
"No, it ain't, Lizzie, reelly it ain't. I filled it right up to the brim. It's that bit o' stoo I spilt on the stove. Stinks like billy-o, don't it?" His sense of guilt made him garrulous. "I'll go an' scrape it orf," he added, and with that he was gone.
"Oh, my Gawd!" he muttered as he opened the kitchen door, and was greeted by a volume of bluish smoke that seemed to catch at his throat.
He made a wild dash for the stove, seized the saucepan and, taking it over to the sink, turned on the tap.
A moment later he dropped the saucepan into the sink and started back, blinded by a volume of steam that issued from its interior.
Swiftly and quietly he opened the window and the outer door.
"You ain't no cook, J.B.," he muttered, as he unhitched the roller-towel and proceeded to use it as a fan, with the object of driving the smell out of the window and scullery-door.
When the air was clearer, he returned to the sink and,this time, filled both the saucepans with water and replaced them on the stove.
"I wonder wot I better do," he muttered, and he looked about him helplessly.
Then, with sudden inspiration, he remembered Mrs. Hearty.
Creeping softly upstairs, he put his head round the bedroom door and announced that he was going out to buy a paper. Without waiting for either criticism or comment, he quickly closed the door again.
Ten minutes later, he was opening the glass-panelled door, with the white curtains and blue tie-ups, that led from Mr. Hearty's Fulham shop to the parlour behind.
Mrs. Hearty was sitting at the table, a glass half-full of Guinness' stout before her.
At the sight of Bindle, she began to laugh, and laughter always reduced her to a state that was half-anguish, half-ecstasy.
"Oh, Joe!" she wheezed, and then began to heave and undulate with mirth.
At the sight of the anxious look on his face she stopped suddenly, and with her clenched fist began to pound her chest.
"It's my breath, Joe," she wheezed. "It don't seem to get no better. 'Ave a drop," she gasped, pointing to the Guinness bottle on the table. "There's a glass on the dresser," she added; but Bindle shook an anxious head.
"It's Lizzie," he said.
"Lizzie!" wheezed Mrs. Hearty. "What she been doin' now?"
Mrs. Hearty possessed no illusions about her sister's capacity to contrive any man's domestic happiness. Her own philosophy was, "If things must happen, let 'em," whereas she was well aware that Mrs. Bindle strove to control the wheels of destiny.
"When you're my size," she would say, "you won't want to worry about anything; it's the lean 'uns as grizzles."
"She's ill in bed," he explained, "an' I don't know wot to do. Says she won't see a doctor, an' she's sort o' fidgetty because she thinks I'm burnin' the bloomin' saucepans—an' I 'ave burned 'em, Martha," he added confidentially. "Such a stink."
Whereat Mrs. Hearty began to heave, and strange movements rippled down her manifold chins. She was laughing.
There was, however, no corresponding light of humour in Bindle's eyes, and she quickly recovered herself. "What's the matter with 'er, Joe?" she gasped.
"She won't say where it is," he replied. "I think it's 'er chest."
"All right, I'll come round," and she proceeded to make a series of strange heaving movements until, eventually, she acquired sufficient bounce to bring her to her feet. "You go back, Joe," she added.
"Righto, Martha! You always was a sport," and Bindle walked towards the door. As he opened ithe turned. "You won't say anythink about them saucepans," he said anxiously.
"Oh! go hon, do," wheezed Mrs. Hearty, beginning to undulate once more.
With her brother-in-law, Mrs. Hearty was never able to distinguish between the sacred and the profane.
Half an hour later, Mrs. Hearty and Bindle were standing one on either side of Mrs. Bindle's bed. Mrs. Hearty was wearing a much-worn silk plush cape and an old, pale-blue tam-o-shanter, originally belonging to her daughter, which gave her a rakish appearance.
"What's the matter, Lizzie?" she asked, puffing like a collie in the Dog Days.
"I'm ill. Leave me alone!" moaned Mrs. Bindle in a husky voice.
Bindle looked across at Mrs. Hearty, in a way that seemed to say, "I told you she was bad."
"Don't be a fool, Lizzie," was her sister's uncompromising comment. "You go for a doctor, Joe."
"I won't have——" began Mrs. Bindle, then she stopped suddenly, a harsh, bronchial cough cutting off the rest of her sentence.
"You've got bronchitis," said Mrs. Hearty with conviction. "Put the kettle on before you go out, Joe."
"Leave me alone," moaned Mrs. Bindle. "Oh! I don't want to die, I don't want to die."
"You ain't goin' to die, Lizzie," said Bindle, bending over her, anxiety in his face. "You're goin' to live to be a 'undred."
"You go an' fetch a doctor, Joe. I'll see to 'er,"and Mrs. Hearty proceeded to remove her elaborate black plush cape.
"I don't want a doctor," moaned Mrs. Bindle. In her heart was a great fear lest he should confirm her own fears that death was at hand; but Bindle had disappeared on his errand of mercy, and Mrs. Hearty was wheezing and groaning as, with arms above her head, she strove to discover the single hat-pin with which she had fixed the tam-o-shanter to her scanty hair.
"There's two rashers of bacon and an egg on the top shelf of the larder for Joe's breakfast," murmured Mrs. Bindle hoarsely.
Mrs. Hearty nodded as she passed out of the door.
In spite of her weight and the shortness of her breath, she descended to the kitchen. When Bindle returned, he found the bedroom reeking with the smell of vinegar. Mrs. Bindle was sitting up in bed, a towel enveloping her head, so that the fumes of the boiling vinegar should escape from the basin only by way of her bronchial tubes.
"'Ow is she?" he asked anxiously.
"She's all right," gasped Mrs. Hearty. "Is 'e coming?"
"Be 'ere in two ticks," was the response. "Two of 'em was out, this was the third."
He stood regarding with an air of relief the strange outline of Mrs. Bindle's head enveloped in the towel. Someone had at last done something.
"She ain't a-goin' to die, Martha, is she?" he enquired of Mrs. Hearty, his brow lined with anxiety.
"Not 'er," breathed Mrs. Hearty reassuringly. "It's bronchitis. You just light a fire, Joe."
Almost before the words were out of her mouth, Bindle had tip-toed to the door and was taking the stairs three at a time. Action was the one thing he desired. He determined that, the fire once laid, he would set to work to clean out the saucepan he had burned. Somehow that saucepan seemed to bite deep into his conscience.
The doctor came, saw, and confirmed Mrs. Hearty's diagnosis. Having prescribed a steam-kettle, inhalations of eucalyptus, slop food, warmth and air, he left, promising to look in again on the morrow.
At the bottom of the stairs, he was waylaid by Bindle.
"It ain't——" he began eagerly, then paused.
The doctor, a young, fair man, looked down from his six feet one, at Bindle's anxious enquiring face.
"Nothing to be alarmed about," he said cheerfully. "I'll run in again to-morrow, and we'll soon have her about again."
"Thank you, sir," said Bindle, drawing a sigh of obvious relief. "Funny thing," he muttered as he closed the door on the doctor, "that you never seems to think o' dyin' till somebody gets ill. I'm glad 'e's a big 'un," he added inconsequently. "Mrs. B. likes 'em big," and he returned to the kitchen, where he proceeded to scrape the stove and scour the saucepan, whilst Mrs. Hearty continued to minister to her afflicted sister.
Mrs. Bindle's thoughts seemed to be preoccupiedwith her domestic responsibilities. From time to time she issued her instructions.
"Make Joe up a bed on the couch in the parlour," she murmured hoarsely. "I'd keep him awake if he slept here."
"Try an' get Mrs. Coppen to come in to get Joe's dinner," she said, a few minutes later.
And yet again she requested her sister to watch the bread-pan to see that the supply was kept up. "Joe eats a lot of bread," she added.
To all these remarks, Mrs. Hearty returned the same reply. "Don't you worry, Lizzie. You just get to sleep."
That night Bindle worked long and earnestly that things might be as Mrs. Bindle had left them; but fate was against him. Nothing he was able to do could remove from the inside of the saucepan the damning evidences of his guilt. The stove, however, was an easier matter; but even that presented difficulties; for, as soon as he applied the moist blacklead, it dried with a hiss and the polishing brush, with the semi-circle of bristles at the end that reminded him of "'Earty's whiskers," instead of producing a polish, merely succeeded in getting burned. Furthermore, he had the misfortune to break a plate and a pie-dish.
At the second smash, there was a tapping from the room above, and, on going to the door, he heard Mrs. Hearty wheezing an enquiry as to what it was that was broken.
"Only an old galley-pot, Martha," he lied, and returned to gather up the pieces. These he wrapped ina newspaper and placed in the dresser-drawer, determined to carry them off next day. He was convinced that if Mrs. Bindle were about again before the merciful arrival of the dustman, she would inevitably subject the dust-bin to a rigorous examination.
At ten o'clock, Mrs. Hearty heavily descended the stairs and, as well as her breath would permit, she instructed him what to do during the watches of the night. Bindle listened earnestly. Never in his life had he made a linseed poultice, and the management of a steam-kettle was to him a new activity.
When he heard about the bed on the couch, he looked the surprise he felt. Mrs. Bindle never allowed him even to sit on it. He resolutely vetoed the bed, however. He was going to sit up and "try an' bring 'er round," as he expressed it.
"Is she goin' to die, Martha?" he interrogated anxiously. That question seemed to obsess his thoughts.
Mrs. Hearty shook her head and beat her breast. She lacked the necessary oxygen to reply more explicitly.
Having conducted Mrs. Hearty to the garden gate, he returned, closed and bolted the door, and proceeded upstairs. As he entered the bedroom, he was greeted by a harsh, bronchial cough that terrified him.
"Feelin' better, Lizzie?" he enquired, with all the forced optimism of a man obviously anxious.
Mrs. Bindle opened her eyes, looked at him for a moment, then, closing them again, shook her head.
"'As 'e sent you any physic?" he enquired.
Again Mrs. Bindle shook her head, this time without opening her eyes.
Bindle's heart sank. If the doctor didn't see the necessity for medicine, the case must indeed be desperate.
"What did he say, Joe?" she enquired in a hoarse voice.
In spite of himself Bindle started slightly at the name. He had not heard it for many years.
"'E said you're a-gettin' on fine," he lied.
"Am I very ill? Is it——"
"You ain't got nothink much the matter with you, Lizzie," he replied lightly, in his anxiety to comfort, conveying the impression that she was in extreme danger. "Jest a bit of a chill."
"Am I dying, Joe?"
In spite of its repetition, the name still seemed unfamiliar to him.
"I shall be dead-meat long before you, Lizzie," he said, and his failure to answer her question directly, confirmed Mrs. Bindle in her view that the end was very near.
"I'm goin' to make you some arrowroot, now," he said, with an assurance in his voice that he was far from feeling. Ever since Mrs. Hearty had explained to him the mysteries of arrowroot-making, he had felt how absolutely unequal he was to the task.
Through Mrs. Bindle's mind flashed a vision of milk allowed to boil over; but she felt herself too near the End to put her thoughts into words.
With uncertainty in his heart and anxiety in his eyes, Bindle descended to the kitchen. Selecting a small saucepan, which Mrs. Bindle kept for onions, he poured into it, as instructed by Mrs. Hearty, a breakfast-cupful of milk. This he placed upon the stove, which in one spot was manifesting a dull red tint. Bindle was thorough in all things, especially in the matter of stoking.
He then opened the packet of arrowroot and poured it into a white pudding-basin. At the point where Mrs. Hearty was to have indicated the quantity of arrowroot to be used, she had been more than usually short of breath, with the result that Bindle did not catch the "two-tablespoonfuls" she had mentioned.
He then turned to the stove to watch the milk, forgetting that Mrs. Hearty had warned him to mix the arrowroot into a thin paste with cold milk before pouring on to it the hot.
As the milk manifested no particular excitement, Bindle drew from his pocket the evening paper which, up to now, he had forgotten. He promptly became absorbed in a story of the finding at Enfield of a girl's body bearing evidences of foul play.
He was roused from his absorption by a violent hiss from the stove and, a moment later, he was holding aloft the saucepan, from which a Niagara of white foam streamed over the sides on to the angry stove beneath.
"Wot a stink," he muttered, as he stepped back and turned towards the kitchen table. "Only jest in time, though," he added as, with spoon in one hand,he proceeded to pour the boiling milk on to the arrowroot, assiduously stirring the while.
"Well, I'm blowed," he muttered as, at the end of some five minutes, he stood regarding a peculiarly stodgy mass composed of a glutinous substance in which were white bubbles containing a fine powder.
For several minutes he stood regarding it doubtfully, and then, with the air of a man who desires to make assurance doubly sure, he spooned the mass out on to a plate and once more stood regarding it.
"Looks as if it wants a few currants," he murmured dubiously, as he lifted the plate from the table, preparatory to taking it up to Mrs. Bindle.
"I brought you somethink to eat, Lizzie," he announced, as he closed the door behind him.
Mrs. Bindle shook her head, then opening her eyes, fixed them upon the strange viscid mass that Bindle extended to her.
"What is that smell?" she murmured wearily.
"Smell," said Bindle, sniffing the air like a cat when fish is boiling. "I don't smell nothink, Lizzie."
"You've burned something," she moaned feebly.
"'Ere, eat this," he said with forced cheerfulness, "then you'll feel better."
Once more Mrs. Bindle opened her eyes, gazed at the mass, then shaking her head, turned her face to the wall.
For five minutes, Bindle strove to persuade her. Finally, recognising defeat, he placed the plate on a chair by the bedside and, seating himself on a little green-painted box, worn at the edges so that theoriginal white wood showed through, he proceeded to look the helplessness he felt.
"Feelin' better, Lizzie?" he enquired at length, holding his breath eagerly as he waited for the reply.
Mrs. Bindle shook her head drearily, and his heart sank.
Suddenly, he remembered Mrs. Hearty's earnest exhortation to keep the steam-kettle in operation. Once more he descended to the kitchen and, whilst the kettle was boiling, he occupied himself with scraping the heat-flaked milk from the top of the stove.
Throughout that night he laboured at the steam-kettle, or sat gazing helplessly at Mrs. Bindle, despair clutching at his heart, impotence dogging his footsteps. From time to time he would offer her the now cold slab of arrowroot, or else enquire if she were feeling better; but Mrs. Bindle refused the one and denied the other.
With the dawn came inspiration.
"Would you like a kipper for breakfast, Lizzie?" he enquired, hope shining in his eyes.
This time Mrs. Bindle not only shook her head, but manifested by her expression such a repugnance that he felt repulsed. The very thought of kippers made his own mouth water and, recalling that Mrs. Bindle was particularly partial to them, he realised that her condition must be extremely grave.
Soon after nine, Mrs. Hearty arrived and insisted on preparing breakfast for Bindle. Having despatched him to his work she proceeded to tidy-up.
After the doctor had called, Mrs. Bindle once moresought news as to her condition. This time Mrs. Hearty, obviously keen on reassuring the invalid, succeeded also in confirming her morbid convictions.
At the sight of the plate containing Bindle's conception of arrowroot for an invalid, Mrs. Hearty had at first manifested curiosity, then, on discovering the constituent parts of the unsavoury-looking mess, she had collapsed upon the green-painted box, wheezing and heaving until her gasps for breath caused Mrs. Bindle to open her eyes.
For nearly a week, Bindle and Mrs. Hearty devoted themselves to the sick woman. Every morning Bindle was late for work, and when he could get home he spent more than half of his dinner-hour by Mrs. Bindle's bedside, asking the inevitable question as to whether she were feeling better.
In the evening, he got home as fast as bus, train or tram could take him, and not once did he go to bed.
During the whole period, Mrs. Bindle was as docile and amenable to reason as a poor relation. Never had she been so subdued. From Mrs. Hearty she took the food that was prepared for her, and acquiesced in the remedies administered. Amidst a perfect tornado of wheezes and gaspings, Mrs. Hearty had confided to Bindle that he had better refrain from invalid cookery.
Nothing that either the doctor or Mrs. Hearty could say would convince Mrs. Bindle that she was long for this world. The very cheerfulness of those around her seemed proof positive that they were striving to inspire her with a hope they were far from feeling.