When, under the able command of Patrol-leader Smithers, the Bindles' belongings had been piled up just inside the meadow and Mrs. Bindle helped down, sore in body and disturbed in temper, the indefatigable boy scout led the way towards a tent. He carried the Japanese basket in one hand, and the handleless bag under the other arm, whilst Bindle followed with the tin-bath, and Mrs. Bindle made herself responsible for the bundle of blankets, through the centre of which the parrot-headed umbrella peeped out coyly.
Their guide paused at the entrance of a bell-tent, and deposited the Japanese basket on the ground.
"This is your tent," he announced, "I'll send one of the patrol to help you," and, with the air of one upon whose shoulders rests the destiny of planets, he departed.
Bindle and Mrs. Bindle gazed after him, then at each other, finally at the tent. Bindle stepped across and put his head inside; but quickly withdrew it.
"Smells like a bus on a wet day," he muttered.
With an air of decision Mrs. Bindle entered the tent. As she did so Bindle winked gravely at a little boy who had wandered up, and now stood awaiting events with blue-eyed gravity. At Bindle's wink he turned and trotted off to a neighbouring tent, from the shelter of which he continued to watch the domestic tragedy of the new arrivals.
"There are no bedsteads." Mrs. Bindle's voice came from within the tent in tones of muffled tragedy.
"You don't say so," said Bindle abstractedly, his attention concentrated upon a diminutive knight of the pole, who was approaching their tent.
"Where's the feather beds, 'Orace?" he demanded when the lad was within ear-shot.
"There's a waterproof ground-sheet and we supply mattresses of loose straw," he announced as he halted sharply within two paces of where Bindle stood.