"But I ain't a fire-eater," objected Bindle. "I want a bit o' steak, or a rasher an' an egg."
"What's the use of a scout-fire to me with kippers to cook?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, appearing once more at the entrance of the tent.
At that moment another "tired worker" drifted across to the Bindles' tent. He was a long, lean man with a straggling moustache and three days' growth of beard. He was in his shirt sleeves, collarless, with unbuttoned waistcoat, and he wore a general air of despondency and gloom.
"'Ow goes it, mate?" he enquired.
Bindle straightened himself from inspecting the interior of the tin-bath which he was unpacking.
"Oh! mid; but I've known wot it is to be 'appier," said Bindle, with a grin.
"Same 'ere," was the gloomy response.
"Things sort o' seem to 'ave gone wrong," suggested Bindle conversationally.
"That's right," said the man, rubbing the bristles of his chin with a meditative thumb.
"'Ow you gettin' on for grub?" asked Bindle.