"Mrs. B.," remarked Bindle, "you best keep to cookin', you're a dab at that, and leave politics to them wot understands 'em. You can't catch a mad dog by puttin' salt on 'is tail. I wonder where ole Guppy is," he continued, glancing at the kitchen clock, which pointed to half-past nine. "It ain't often 'e lets praying get in the way of 'is meals."
"I hope nothing has happened to him," remarked Mrs. Bindle a little anxiously.
"No fear o' that," replied Bindle regretfully. "Things don't 'appen to men like Gupperduck; still it's funny 'im missin' a meal," he added.
At a quarter to ten Mrs. Bindle reluctantly acquiesced in Bindle's demand for supper. She was clearly anxious, listening intently for the familiar sound of Mr. Gupperduck's key in the outer door.
"I wonder what could have happened?" she said as the clock indicated a quarter past ten and she rose to clear away.
"P'raps 'e's been took up to 'eaven like that cove wot 'Earty was talkin' about the other night," suggested Bindle.
Mrs. Bindle's sniff intimated that she considered such a remark unworthy of her attention.
"Ah! King Richard is 'isself again!" remarked Bindle, pushing his plate from him, throwing himself back in his chair, and proceeding to fill his pipe, indifferent as to what happened to the lodger.
Mrs. Bindle busied herself in putting Mr. Gupperduck's supper in the oven to keep warm.
"Funny sort of job for a man to take up," remarked Bindle conversationally, as he lighted his pipe, "preaching at people wot only laughs back."