"Why don't you get the same girl?" asked Mrs. Bindle.
"She says she's too busy. I 'ad a try myself," said the man, "only it was a washout."
"I'll 'ave a look at 'er," Bindle announced, and the three men moved off across the meadow, picking their way among the tents with their piles of bedding, blankets, and other impedimenta outside. All were getting ready for the night.
When Bindle reached Daisy, he found the problem had been solved by one of Mr. Timkins' farm-hands, who was busily at work, watched by an interested group of campers.
During the next half-hour, Bindle strolled about among the tents learning many things, foremost among which was that "the whole ruddy camp was a washout." The commissariat had failed badly, and the nearest drink was a mile away at The Trowel and Turtle. A great many things were said about the bishop and the organisers of the camp.
When he returned to the tent, he found Mrs. Bindle engaged in boiling water in a petrol-tin over a scout-fire. With the providence of a good housewife she had brought with her emergency supplies, and Bindle was soon enjoying a meal comprised of kipper, tea and bread and margarine. When he had finished, he announced himself ready to face the terrors of the night.
"I can't say as I likes it," he remarked, as he stood at the entrance to the tent, struggling to undo his collar. "Seems to me sort o' draughty."
"That's right, go on," cried Mrs. Bindle, as she pushed past him. "What did you expect?"
"Well, since you asks me, I'm like those coves in religion wot expects nothink; but gets an 'ell of a lot."
"Don't blaspheme. It's Sunday to-morrow," was the rejoinder; but Bindle had strolled away to commune with the man with a stubbly chin and pessimistic soul.