"Where can we get a cart?" she demanded with the air of one who has taken an important decision.
The porter scratched his head through his cap and considered deeply, then with a sudden flank movement and a muttered, "I'll ask Young Tom," he shuffled off in the direction of the signal-box.
Bindle gazed dubiously at the pile of their possessions, and then at Mrs. Bindle.
"Three miles," he muttered. "You didn't ought to be trusted out with a young chap like me, Mrs. B.," he said reproachfully.
"That's enough, Bindle."
Without another word she stalked resolutely along the platform in the direction of the signal-box. The old porter happening to glance over his shoulder saw her coming, and broke into a shambling trot, determined to obtain the moral support of Young Tom before another encounter.
Drawing his pipe from his pocket, Bindle sank down upon the tin-bath, jumping up instantly, conscious that something had given way beneath him with a crack suggestive of broken crockery. Reseating himself upon the bundle of blankets, he proceeded to smoke contentedly. After all, something would happen, something always did.
Twenty minutes elapsed before Mrs. Bindle returned with the announcement that the signalman had telegraphed to West Boxton for a cart.
"Well, well," said Bindle philosophically, "it's turnin' out an 'appy day; but I could do with a drink."
An hour later a cart rumbled its noisy way up to the station, outside which stood the Bindles and their luggage. A business-like little boy scout slid off the tail.