THE LETTING OF NUMBER SIX
I
"An' what am I to do if there's an air-raid?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.
Bindle deliberately emptied his coffee-cup, replaced it in its saucer, sat back further in his chair as a sign of repletion, then turned to Mrs. Bindle, who had been watching him with angry eyes.
"Well, there's always Gawd an' Mr. Gupperduck, Mrs. B.," he remarked, with the air of a man suggesting an unfailing source of inspiration.
"You always was a scoffer, you with your black 'eart." Mrs. Bindle's ire was rising, and her diction in consequence losing something of its customary precision. "You know I ain't strong and—and 'ow them guns an' bombs frighten me." There was in Mrs. Bindle's voice a note of entreaty.
"A daughter o' the Lord didn't ought to be afraid of an 'Un; besides, you can go round an' 'old 'Earty's 'and. 'E's a rare ole 'ero when there's guns goin' off."
"I knew I shouldn't get any sympathy from you," complained Mrs. Bindle, rising and proceeding to bang away the breakfast things. When Mrs. Bindle was suffering from any great stress of emotion, she expressed her feelings by the noise she made. Ironing gave her the greatest opportunities. She could bang the iron on the ironing-board, back again to the stand, and finally on to the stove.
"I got to earn a livin'," remarked Bindle philosophically as he proceeded to light his pipe. "It's war-time too, an' nobody can't afford to move, so pore ole Joe 'as to take any ole job 'e can get 'old of."
"You lorst your last job a-purpose," snapped Mrs. Bindle.