Mrs. Bindle: Some Incidents from the Domestic Life of the Bindles

  CHAPTER X

  THE COMING OF THE WHIRLWIND

  I

  "It's come, mate."

  "Go away, we're not up yet," cried the voice of Mrs. Bindle from insidethe tent.

  "It's come, mate," repeated a lugubrious voice, which Bindle recognisedas that of the tall, despondent man with the stubbly chin.

  "Who's come?" demanded Bindle, sitting up and throwing the bedclothesfrom 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 andjoined the group of men and children gazing at a battered object thatwas 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 adirt-grimed thumb in the direction of the travelling field-kitchen.

  Dubious heads were shaken. Many of the men had already had practicalexperience of the temperament possessed by an army field-kitchen.

  "At Givenchy I see one of 'em cut in 'alf by a 'Crump,'" muttered alittle dark-haired man, with red-rimmed eyes that seemed to blinkautomatically. "It wasn't 'alf a sight, neither," he added.

  "Who's goin' to stoke?" demanded Barnes, rubbing his chin affectionatelywith 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 thesupreme 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 asinglet 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, "only my missis got thisruddy camp on the streamin' brain. Jawed about it till I was sick andgive 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 proceededfiercely to discuss the date of the Yarmouth Races.

  When the argument had gone as far as it could without blows, and hadquieted all other conversation, Bindle slipped away from the group andreturned to the tent to find Mrs. Bindle busy preparing breakfast.

  He smacked his lips with the consciousness that of all the campers hewas the best fed.

  "Gettin' a move on," he cried cheerily, and once more he smacked hislips.

  "Pity you can't do something to help," she retorted, "instead of loafingabout with that pack of lazy scamps."

  Bindle retired to the interior of the tent and proceeded with histoilet.

  "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 momentnothing seemed to suggest itself, and Mrs. Bindle viciously broke threeeggs into the frying-pan in which bacon was already sizzling, like anenergetic wireless-plant.

  The savoury smell of the frying eggs and bacon reached Bindle inside thetent, 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 shebroke 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 shewas holding over the scout-fire.

  For a minute or two Bindle preserved silence, wondering what topic hepossessed that would soothe her obvious irritation.

  "They say the big tent's down at the station," he remarked, repeating arumour 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 strawlike that. I ache all over."

  He saw that he had made a false move in introducing the subject ofsleep.

  "The milk hasn't come," she announced presently with the air of onemaking a statement she knew would be unpopular. Bindle hated teawithout milk.

  "You don't say so," he remarked. "I must 'ave a word with Daisy. Shedidn'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 youwould 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 yourwife."

  Bindle remained silent. He realized that there were times when it wasbetter 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 risinghysterically. "So long as you've got plenty to eat, nothing elsematters. I wonder I stand it. I--I----"

  Bindle's eyes were still fixed anxiously upon the frying-pan, which, inher 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," andwith that she inverted the frying-pan, tipping the contents into thefire. As Bindle sprang up from the box on which he had been sitting, sherubbed the frying-pan into the ashes, making a hideous mess of theburning-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 forhis breakfast.

  Picking up a stick, charred at one end, he began to rake among theembers in the vague hope of being able to disinter from the wrecksomething that was eatable; but Mrs. Bindle's action in rubbing thefrying-pan into the ashes had removed from the contents all semblance offood. With a sigh he rose to his feet to find the bishop gazing down athim.

  "Had a mishap?" he asked pleasantly.

  "You've 'it it, sir," grinned Bindle. "Twenty years ago," he added in awhisper.

  "Twenty years ago!" murmured the bishop, a puzzled expression on hisface. "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 jumpynow and again."

  "I see," whispered the bishop, "she upset the breakfast."

  "Well, sir, you can put it that way; but personally myself, I think itwas 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 frombehind a neighbouring tent, he hailed him.

  Barnes approached with all the deliberation and unconcern of apronounced fatalist.

  "Our friend here has had a m
ishap," said the bishop, indicating thefire. "Will you go round to my tent and get some eggs and bacon. Hurryup, there's a good fellow."

  Barnes turned on a deliberate heel, whilst Bindle and the bishop setthemselves to the reconstruction of the scout-fire.

  A quarter of an hour later, when Mrs. Bindle peeped out of the tent, shesaw the bishop and Bindle engaged in frying eggs and bacon; whilstBarnes 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. Bindlehas been telling me that he has had a mishap with your breakfast, so I'mhelping him to cook it. I hope you won't mind if I join you in eatingit."

  "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 generallykept 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 thecooking."

  "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 wantyou to say it. Here we are all friends, helping one another, and givinga meal when the hungry appears. For this morning I'm going to fill therole 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'sbidding.

  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 andChristian charity, slid off again to summer-camps, thence on tomarriage, babies and the hundred and one other things dear to a woman'sheart.

  When he finally rose to go, Bindle saw in Mrs. Bindle's eyes a smilethat 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 tobe selfish. Thank you for your hospitality and our pleasant chat," andwith that he was gone.

  "Well, I'm blowed!" muttered Bindle as he gazed after the figure of theretreating bishop, "an' me always thinkin' that you 'ad to 'ave an 'ymnan' a tin o' salmon to make love to Mrs. B."

  "And now, I suppose, you'll go off and leave me to do all thewashing-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 togather together the dishes.

  "No," muttered Bindle as he fetched some sticks for the fire. "'E cantalk tack all right; but when you wants it to last, it's better to 'avea tin o' salmon to fall back on."

  That morning Daisy had a serious rival in the field-kitchen, which likeher was an unknown quantity, capable alike of ministering to thehappiness of all, or of withholding that which was expected of it.

  It was soon obvious to the bishop that the field-kitchen was going toprove as great a source of anxiety as Daisy. No one manifested anymarked inclination to act as stoker. Apart from this, the bishop hadentirely forgotten the important item of fuel, having omitted to ordereither coal or coke. In addition there was a marked suspicion, on thepart of the wives, of what they regarded as a new-fangled way of cookinga meal. Many of them had already heard of army field-kitchens from theirhusbands, and were filled with foreboding.

  It took all the bishop's tact and enthusiasm to modify their obviousantagonism.

  "I ain't a-goin' to trust anythink o' mine in a rusty old thing likethat," said a fat woman with a grimy skin and scanty hair.

  "Same 'ere, they didn't ought to 'ave let us come down without makingproper pervision," complained a second, seizing an opportunity when thebishop's head was in the stoke-hole to utter the heresy.

  "Bless me!" he said, withdrawing his head, unconscious that there was ablack smudge on the right episcopal cheek. "It will take a dreadful lotof fuel. Now, who will volunteer to stoke?" turning his most persuasivesmile upon the group of men, who had been keenly interested in hisexamination of the contrivance.

  The men shuffled their feet, looked at one another, as if each expectedto find in another the spirit of sacrifice lacking in himself.

  Their disinclination was so marked that the bishop's face fell, until hesuddenly 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 alreadyingratiated himself with the men because he did not "talk like a ruddyparson." "I want somebody to take charge of this field-kitchen," hecontinued. "I'd do it myself, only I've got such a lot of other thingsto see to. I'll borrow some coal from Mr. Timkins."

  Bindle gazed dubiously at the unattractive mass of iron, dabbed with theweather-worn greens and browns of camouflage and war.

  "It's quite simple," said the bishop. "You light the fire here, that'sthe 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 anyscrappin' with the ladies, well, I ain't in it."

  Finally it was arranged that Bindle should start the fire and get thefield-kitchen into working order, and that the putting-in the oven andtaking-out again of the various dishes should be left to the discretionof the campers themselves, who were to be responsible for the length oftime 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 thefire well alight. There had arrived from the farm a good supply of coaland coke.

  "You ain't 'alf 'it it unlucky, mate," said the man with the bristlychin. "'E ought to 'ave 'ired a cook," he added. "We come 'ere to enjoyourselves, 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 thiscoke," and, a minute later, the lugubrious Barnes found himselfsweating like a horse, and shovelling fuel into the kitchen's voraciousmaw.

  "That's not the way!"

  The man straightened his back and, with one hand on the spade, gazed atMrs. Bindle, who had approached unobserved. With the grubby thumb of hisother hand he rubbed his chin, giving to his unprepossessing features alopsided appearance.

  "Wot ain't the way, missis?" he asked with the air of one quite preparedto listen to reason.

  "The coke should be damped," was the response, "and you're putting intoo much."

  "But we want it to burn up," he protested.

  Mrs. Bindle ostentatiously turned upon him a narrow back.

  "_You_ ought to know better, at least, Bindle," she snapped, andproceeded 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. Hisassistant had disappeared.

  "You mustn't let anyone put anything in until the oven's hot," continuedMrs. Bindle, "and you mustn't open the door too often. You'd better fixa 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 burnit."

  "I'll watch it as if it was my own cheeild," vowed Bindle.

  "If the bishop knew you as I know you, he wouldn't have trusted youwith this," said Mrs. Bindle, as she walked away with indrawn lips andhead in the air, stepping with the self-consciousness of a bantam thatfeels its spurs.
>
  "Blowed if she don't think I volunteered for the bloomin' job," hemuttered, 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 overdoneit ain't mine," and with that he drew his pipe from his pocket andfilled it.

  "No luck," he cried, as a grey-haired old woman with the dirt of otheryears 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 loto' 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 'ereis a religious kitchen. It's a different sort from an ordinaryblasphemious kitchen."

  On the stroke of eleven Mrs. Bindle appeared with a large brownpie-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 womanproffered 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 bedone, I'll be umpire."

  One by one the dishes were inserted in the oven, and one by one theirowners retired, a feeling of greater confidence in their hearts now thatthey could prepare a proper dinner. The men went off to get a drink, andsoon Bindle was alone.

  During the first half-hour Mrs. Bindle paid three separate visits to thefield-kitchen. To her it was a new and puzzling contrivance, and she hadno means of gauging the heat of the oven. She regarded it distrustfullyand, on the occasion of the second visit, gave a special word of warningto Bindle.

  At 11.40 Barnes returned with a large black bottle, which he held out toBindle with an invitation to "'ave a drink."

  Bindle removed the cork and put the bottle to his lips, and his Adam'sapple bobbed up and down joyously.

  "Ah!" he cried, as he at length lowered the bottle and his head at thesame time. "That's the stuff to give 'em," and reluctantly he handedback 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 sunwas 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 hewould, his head continued to nod, and his eyelids seemed weighted withlead.

  Suddenly he had an inspiration. If he stoked-up the field-kitchen, itwould look after itself, and he could have just the "forty winks" hisnature craved.

  With feverish energy he set to work with the shovel, treating the twostacks of coal and coke with entire impartiality. Then, when he hadfilled the furnace, he closed the door with the air of the Roman sentryrelieving himself of responsibility by setting a burglar-alarm. Gettingwell out of the radius of the heat caused by the furnace, he composedhimself to slumber behind the heap of coke.

  Suddenly he was aroused from a dream in which he stood on the deck of awrecked steamer, surrounded by steam which was escaping with vicioushisses from the damaged boilers.

  He sat up and looked about him. The air seemed white with vapour, in andout of which two figures could be seen moving. He struggled to his feetand looked about him.

  A few yards away he saw Mrs. Bindle engaged in throwing water at thefield-kitchen, and then dashing back quickly to escape the smother ofsteam 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, heapproached from the opposite side, to see what it was that had producedthe crisis. Just at that moment, the bishop decided that the pail hadbeen sufficiently lightened by the use of the pink-and-blue jug toenable him to lift it.

  A moment later Bindle was the centre of a cascade of water and a mantleof 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 hadbecome overheated and that between them they were trying to lower itstemperature.

  "Yes; but I ain't over'eated," protested Bindle.

  "You put too much coal in, Bindle; the place would have been red-hot inhalf an hour."

  "Well; but look at all them dinners that----"

  "Don't talk to him, my lord," said Mrs. Bindle, who from a fellow-camperhad 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'tmean 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 bishopand Bindle working under her direction. The news that the field-kitchenwas on fire, conveyed to their parents by the children, had brought upthe campers in full-force and at the double.

  There had been a rush for the oven; but Mrs. Bindle soon showed that shehad the situation well in hand, and the sight of the bishop doing herbidding had a reassuring effect.

  Under her supervision, each dish and basin was withdrawn, and first aidadministered to such as required it. Those that were burnt, were tendedwith a skill and expedition that commanded the admiration of everyhousewife present. They were content to leave matters in hands thatthey recognised were more capable than their own.

  When the salvage work was ended, and the dishes and basins replaced inan oven that had been reduced to a suitable temperature, the bishopmopped his brow, whilst Mrs. Bindle stood back and gazed at thefield-kitchen as St. George might have regarded the conquered dragon.

  Her face was flushed, and her hands were grimed; but in her eyes was akeen satisfaction. For once in her life she had occupied the centre ofsomething larger than a domestic stage.

  "My friends," cried the bishop, always ready to say a few words or pointthe moral, "we are all under a very great obligation to our capablefriend Mrs. Bindle, a veritable Martha among women;" he indicated Mrs.Bindle with a motion of what was probably the dirtiest episcopal hand inthe history of the Church. "She has saved the situation and, what ismore, she has saved our dinners. Now," he cried boyishly, "I call forthree cheers for Mrs. Bindle."

  And they were given with a heartiness that caused Mrs. Bindle a queersensation at the back of her throat.

  The campers flocked round her and found that she whom they had regardedas "uppish," could be almost gracious. Anyhow, she had saved theirdinners.

  It was Mrs. Bindle's hour.

  "Fancy 'im a-callin' 'er Martha, when 'er name's Lizzie," mutteredBindle, as he strolled off. He had taken no very prominent part in theproceedings--he was a little ashamed of the part he had played in whathad proved almost a tragedy.

  That day the Tired Workers dined because of Mrs. Bindle, and they knewit. Various were the remarks exchanged among the groups collectedoutside the tents.

  "She didn't 'alf order the bishop about," remarked to his wife the manwho 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. "Sheain'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, endeavouringto digest some fifty per cent. more sausage-toad-in-the-hole than he waslicensed to carry, he was aroused from a doze by the sound of voiceswithout.

  "We brought 'em for you, missis." It was the man with the stubbly chinspeaking.

  "Must 'ave made you a bit firsty, all that 'eat," remarked anothervoice.

  Bindle sat up. Events were becoming interesting. He crept to the openingof the tent and slightly pulled aside the flap.

  "Best dinner we've 'ad yet." The speaker was the man who had seen afield-kitchen dissected at Givenchy. He
was just in the line ofBindle's vision.

  Pulling the flap still further aside, he saw half-a-dozen men standingawkwardly before Mrs. Bindle who, with a bottle of Guinness' stout ineither 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 wasblotted out.

  "Come an' 'ave a look at Daisy," he heard the man with the stubbly chinsay. It was obviously his conception of terminating an awkwardinterview.

  "Good day," he heard a voice mumble, to which Mrs. Bindle replied withalmost cordiality.

  Bindle scrambled back to his mattress, just as Mrs. Bindle pulled asidethe flap of the tent and entered, a bottle still in either hand. At thesight, 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 thebottles. "Nice o' them coves to think of us."

  "It was me, not you," was Mrs. Bindle's rejoinder, as she stepped acrossto 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 sheuttered the threat decided him that it would be better to leave thebrace of Guinness severely alone; but he was sorely puzzled.

  II

  That evening, in the sanded tap-room of The Trowel and Turtle, the malesummer-campers expressed themselves for the twentieth timeuncompromisingly 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 inLondon, 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 theirfirst decent meal, and there was every reason to believe that themarquee 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 expressedgrave misgivings as to the weather. The glass was dropping, and therewas every indication of rain.

  "Rain'll jest put the scarlet lid on this blinkin' beano," was theopinion expressed by one of the party and endorsed by all, as, with thelandlord's advice to see that everything was made snug for the night,they trooped out of the comfortable tap-room and turned their headstowards 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 berain. Only just slack them a bit; don't overdo it, or they'll come downon the top of you if the wind gets up."

  "Oh crikey!" moaned a long man with a straggling moustache, as hewatched Patrol-leader Smithers march briskly down the lane.

  For some moments the men gazed at one another in consternation; eachvisualised the desperate state of discomfort that would ensue as theresult 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 distancecalling "'Enery" seemed to lend to them decision, particularly to 'Eneryhimself. They turned and strolled over to where Daisy was engaged inpreparing the morrow's milk supply. She had been milked and was content.

  "Look 'ere, mates," began Bindle, having assured himself that there wereno eavesdroppers, "we're all fed up with Summer-Camps for tiredworkers--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, "nopictures, 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 aspolitely," said Bindle, with a grin. "We're all for good ole Fulhamwhere a cove can lay the dust. Ain't that so, mates?"

  The men expressed their agreement according to the intensity of theirfeelings.

  "Well, listen," said Bindle, "an' I'll tell you." They drew nearer andlistened.

  Twenty minutes later, when the voice demanding 'Enery became tooinsistent to be denied, the party broke up, and there was in the eyes ofall that which spoke of hope.

  III

  That night, as Patrol-leader Smithers had foretold, there arose a greatwind which smote vigorously the tents of the Surrey Summer-Camp forTired 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 anotherand yet another, and soon the darkness was rent by cries, shrieks, andlamentations, whilst somewhere near the Bindles' tent rose the voice ofone 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 whistledthrough the tent-ropes, the rain swept against the canvas sides with anominous "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 notremoving his trousers, a circumstance that was subsequently used asevidence 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 thebrown mackintosh, which she kept ready to hand in case of accidents.Wrapping this about her, she clutched at the bending pole, whilst Bindlestruggled out from among the bedclothes.

  Scrambling to his feet, he tripped over the tin-bath. Clutching wildlyas he fell, he got Mrs. Bindle just above the knees in approved ruggerstyle.

  With a scream she relinquished the pole to free her legs from Bindle'sfrenzied 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. Bindlewas clutching wildly at the base of the pole, Bindle was striving towriggle from beneath her. The combination of forces caused the tent tosway 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 beingkilled.

  It took Bindle nearly five minutes to find his way out from the heavyfolds of wet canvas. Then he had to go back into the darkness to fetchMrs. Bindle. In order to effect his own escape, Bindle had cut thetent-ropes. Just as he had found Mrs. Bindle, a wild gust of windentered behind him, lifted the tent bodily and bore it off.

  The suddenness of the catastrophe seemed to strike Mrs. Bindle dumb. Tobe sitting in the middle of a meadow at dead of night, clothed only in anightdress and a mackintosh, with the rain drenching down, seemed to herto border upon the indecent.

  "You there, Lizzie?" came the voice of Bindle, like the shout of onehailing a drowning person.

  "Where's the tent?" demanded Mrs. Bindle inconsequently.

  "Gawd knows!" he shouted back. "Probably it's at Yarmouth by now. 'Olyointment," he yelled.

  "What's the matter?"

  "I trodden on the marjarine."

  "It's all we've got," she cried, her housewifely fears triumphing overeven the stress of wind and rain and her own intolerable situation.

  From the surrounding darkness came shouts and enquiries as disasterfollowed disaster. Heaving masses of canvas laboured and, one by one,produced figures scanty of garment and full of protest; but mercifullyunseen.

  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' stouthe knew to be somewhere among the debris, unconscious that Mrs. Bindlehad packed them away in the tin-bath.

  As the other tents disgorged their human contents, the pandemoniumincreased. 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 thelost bell-tent, which had sped towards the east as if in search of thewise men, leaving all beneath it naked to the few stars that peeped fromthe scudding clouds above, only to hide their faces a moment later as ifshocked at what they had seen.

  Suddenly a brilliant light flashed across the meadow and began to bobabout like a hundred candle power will-o'-the-wisp. It dodged restlesslyfrom 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 thathad struggled valiantly to escape from the billowing canvas, now begandesperately to wriggle back again to the seclusion that modestydemanded. With heads still protruding they regarded the scene, prayingthat the rudeness of the wind would not betray them.

  Taking immediate charge, Patrol-leader Smithers collected the men andgave his orders in a high treble, and his orders were obeyed.

  By the time the dawn had begun nervously to finger the east, sufficienttents to shelter the women and children had been re-erected, the causeof the trouble discovered, and the men rebuked for an injudiciousslacking of the ropes.

  "I ought to have seen to it myself," remarked Patrol-leader Smitherswith the air of one who knows he has to deal with fools. "You'll be allright now," he added reassuringly.

  "All right now," growled the man with the stubbly chin as he looked upat the grey scudding clouds and then down at the rain-soaked grass. "Wewould 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 upto West Boxton railway-station, followed by a straggling stream of men,women, and children. Overhead heavy rainclouds swung threateninglyacross the sky. Men were smoking their pipes contentedly, for theirs wasthe peace which comes of full knowledge. Behind them they had left alitter of bell-tents and the conviction that Daisy in all probabilitywould explode before dinner-time. What cared they? A few hours hencethey would be once more in their known and understood Fulham.

  As they reached the station they saw two men struggling with a grey massthat 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 speculativeintelligence.

  "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, Bindlecalled 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 afteran 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 Bindlewinked knowingly at the white jug with the pink butterfly on the spout.