Mrs. Bindle snorted and started to rake out the kitchen fire. Whenever Mrs. Bindle reached the apex of her wrath, an attack upon the kitchen fire was inevitable. Suddenly she would conceive the idea that it was not burning as it should burn, and she would rake and dab and poke until at last forced to relight it.
Bindle watched her with interest.
"The next worst thing to bein' Mrs. Bindle's 'usband," he muttered, "is to be a bloomin' kitchen fire with 'er at the other end of a poker." Then aloud he said, "You'd get an allowance while I'm away, and a pension when I dies o' killin' too many Germans."
Mrs. Bindle paused. "How much?" she asked practically.
"Oh, about a pound a week," said Bindle recklessly.
Mrs. Bindle put down the poker and proceeded to wash up. She seemed for ever washing up or sweeping. Presently she enquired:
"When are you goin'?"
"Well," said Bindle, "I thought of trottin' round to the War Office this afternoon and breakin' the news. It'll sort o' buck 'em up to know that I'm comin'."
Mrs. Bindle raised no further objections.
It was Saturday afternoon, and Bindle's time was his own. He joined the queue outside the Recruiting Station in the Fulham Road and patiently waited his turn, incidentally helping to pass the time of those around him by his pungent remarks.