Mrs. Bindle Part 37

"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 p.r.o.nounced 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 impa.s.sive 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 role 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 your hospitality 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. b.u.t.ter 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 quant.i.ty, 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 c.o.ke. 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 such a lot of other things to see to. I'll borrow some coal from Mr. Timkins."

Bindle gazed dubiously at the unattractive ma.s.s 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 sc.r.a.ppin' 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 c.o.ke.

"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."