"When you wants it to stand up," he continued, "it comes down, you bein' underneath. When you wants it to come down, nothing on earth'll move it, till you goes inside to 'ave a look round an' see wot's the trouble, then down it comes on top o' you. It's a game, that's wot it is," he added with conviction, "a game wot nobody ain't goin' to win but the tent."
"Go on talking, you're not hurting me," said Mrs. Bindle, with indrawn lower lip, as she brought down the teapot upon the dresser with a super bang.
"I've 'eard Ging talk o' twins, war, women, an' the beer-shortage; but to 'ear 'im at 'is best, you got to get 'im to talk about bell-tents."
"Everybody else has a holiday except me." Mrs. Bindle was not to be diverted from her subject. "Here am I, slavin' my fingers to the bone, inchin' and pinchin' to keep you in comfort, an' I can't 'ave a holiday. It's a shame, that's what it is, and it's all your fault." She paused in the act of wiping out the inside of the frying-pan, and stood before Bindle like an accusing fury. Anger always sullied the purity of her diction.
"Well, why don't you 'ave an 'oliday if you set yer 'eart on it? I ain't got nothink to say agin it." He continued to puff contentedly at his pipe, wondering what had become of the paper-boy. Bindle had become too inured to the lurid qualities of domesticity to allow them to perturb him.
"'Ow can I go alone?"
"You'd be safe enough."
"You beast!" Bindle was startled by the vindictiveness with which the words were uttered.
For a few minutes there was silence, punctuated by Mrs. Bindle's vigorous clearing away. Presently she passed over to the sink and turned on the tap.
"Nice thing for a married woman to go away alone," she hurled at Bindle over her shoulder, amidst the rushing of water.