Mrs. Bindle Part 27

"The Summer-Camp!" repeated the man, "the Summer-Camp!" Then he suddenly broke into a breeze of chuckles. He looked from Mrs. Bindle to the luggage and from the luggage to Bindle, little gusts of throaty croaks eddying and flowing. Finally with a resounding smack he brought his hand down upon his fustian thigh.

"Well, I'm danged," he chuckled, "if that ain't a good un. I maun go an'

tell Young Tom," and he turned preparatory to making off for the signal-box.

Bindle, however, by a swift movement barred his way.

"If it's as funny as all that, ole sport, wot's the matter with tellin'

us all about it?"

Once more the old man stuttered off into a fugue of chuckles.

"Young Tom'll laugh over this, 'e will," he gasped; "'e'll split 'isself."

"I suppose they don't 'ave much to amuse 'em," said Bindle patiently.

"Now then, wot's it all about?" he demanded.

"Wrong station," spluttered the ancient. Then a moment later he added, "You be wantin' West Boxton. Camp's there. Three mile away. There ain't another train stoppin' here to-night," he added.

Mrs. Bindle looked at Bindle. Her lips had disappeared; but she said nothing. The arrangements had been entirely in her hands, and it was she who had purchased the tickets.

"How far did you say it was?" she demanded of the porter in a tone that seemed, as if by magic, to dry up the fountain of his mirth.

"Three mile, mum," he replied, making a shuffling movement in the direction of where Young Tom stood beside his levers, all unconscious of the splendid joke that had come to cheer his solitude. Mrs. Bindle, however, placed herself directly in his path, grim and determined. The man fell back a pace, casting an appealing look at Bindle.

"Where can we get a cart?" she demanded with the air of one who has taken an important decision.

The porter scratched his head through his cap and considered deeply, then with a sudden flank movement and a muttered, "I'll ask Young Tom,"

he shuffled off in the direction of the signal-box.

Bindle gazed dubiously at the pile of their possessions, and then at Mrs. Bindle.

"Three miles," he muttered. "You didn't ought to be trusted out with a young chap like me, Mrs. B.," he said reproachfully.

"That's enough, Bindle."

Without another word she stalked resolutely along the platform in the direction of the signal-box. The old porter happening to glance over his shoulder saw her coming, and broke into a shambling trot, determined to obtain the moral support of Young Tom before another encounter.

Drawing his pipe from his pocket, Bindle sank down upon the tin-bath, jumping up instantly, conscious that something had given way beneath him with a crack suggestive of broken crockery. Reseating himself upon the bundle of blankets, he proceeded to smoke contentedly. After all, something would happen, something always did.

Twenty minutes elapsed before Mrs. Bindle returned with the announcement that the signalman had telegraphed to West Boxton for a cart.

"Well, well," said Bindle philosophically, "it's turnin' out an 'appy day; but I could do with a drink."

An hour later a cart rumbled its noisy way up to the station, outside which stood the Bindles and their luggage. A business-like little boy scout slid off the tail.

"You want to go to the Camp?" he asked briskly.

"Well," began Bindle, "I can't say that I----"

"Yes," interrupted Mrs. Bindle, seeing in the boy scout her St. George; "we got out at the wrong station." She looked across at Bindle as she spoke, as if to indicate where lay the responsibility for the mistake.

"All right!" said the friend of all the world. "We'll soon get you there."

"An' who might you be, young-fellow-my-lad?" enquired Bindle.

"I'm Patrol-leader Smithers of the Bear Patrol," was the response.

"You don't say so," said Bindle. "Well, well, it's live an' learn, ain't it?"

"Now we'll get the luggage up," said Patrol-leader Smithers.

"'Ow 'Aig an' Foch must miss you," remarked Bindle as between them they hoisted up the tin-bath; but the lad was too intent upon the work on hand for persiflage.

A difficulty presented itself in how Mrs. Bindle was to get into the cart. Her intense sensitiveness, coupled with the knowledge that there would be four strange pairs of male eyes watching her, const.i.tuted a serious obstacle. Young Tom, in whom was nothing of the spirit of Jack Cornwell, and his friend the old porter made no effort to disguise the fact that they were determined to see the drama through to the last fade-out.

Bindle's suggestion that he should "'oist" her up, Mrs. Bindle had ignored, and she flatly refused to climb the spokes of the wheel. The step in front was nearly a yard from the ground, and Mrs. Bindle resented Young Tom's sandy leer.

It was Patrol-leader Smithers who eventually solved the problem by suggesting a dandy-chair, to which Mrs. Bindle reluctantly agreed.

Accordingly Bindle and the porter crossed arms and clasped one another's wrists.

Mrs. Bindle took up a position with her back to the tail of the cart, and the two Sir Walters bent down, whilst Patrol-leader Smithers turned his back and, with great delicacy, strove to engage the fixed eye of Young Tom; but without success.

"Now when I says 'eave--'eave," Bindle admonished the porter.

Gingerly Mrs. Bindle sat down upon their crossed hands.

"One, two, three--'eave!" cried Bindle, and they heaved.

There was a loud guffaw from Young Tom, a stifled scream, and Mrs.

Bindle was safely in the cart; but on her back, with the soles of her elastic-sided boots pointing to heaven. Bindle had under-estimated the thews of the porter.

"Right away!" cried Patrol-leader Smithers, feeling that prompt action alone could terminate so regrettable an incident, and he and Bindle clambered up into the cart, where Mrs. Bindle, having regained control of her movements, was angrily tucking her skirts about her.

The cart jerked forward, and Young Tom and his colleague grinned their valedictions, in their hearts the knowledge that they had just lived a crowded hour of glorious life.

The cart jolted its uneasy way along the dusty high-road, with Bindle beside the driver, Mrs. Bindle sitting on the blankets as grim as Destiny itself, engaged in working up a case against Bindle, and the boy scout watchful and silent, as behoves the leader of an enterprise.

Bindle soon discovered that conversationally the carter was limited to the "Aye" of agreement, varied in moments of unwonted enthusiasm with an "Oh, aye!"

At the end of half an hour's jolt, squeak, and crunch, the cart turned into a lane overhung by giant elms, where the sun-dried ruts were like miniature trenches.

"Better hold on," counselled the lad, as he made a clutch at the j.a.panese basket, which was in danger of going overboard. "It's a bit b.u.mpy here."

"Fancy place in wet weather," murmured Bindle, as he held on with both hands. "So this is the Surrey Summer-Camp for Tired Workers," and he gazed about him curiously.