When Bindle returned to the tent, he found Patrol-leader Smithers instructing Mrs. Bindle in how to coax a scout-fire into activity.
"You mustn't poke it, mum," said the lad. "It goes out if you do."
Mrs. Bindle drew in her lips, and folded the brown mackintosh she was wearing more closely about her. She was not accustomed to criticism, particularly in domestic matters, and her instinct was to disregard it; but the boy's earnestness seemed to discourage retort, and she had already seen the evil effect of attacking a scout-fire with a poker.
Suddenly her eye fell upon Bindle, standing in shirt and trousers, from the back of which his braces dangled despondently.
"Why don't you go in and dress?" she demanded. "Walking about in that state!"
"I been to get a rinse," he explained, as he walked across to the tent and disappeared through the aperture.
Mrs. Bindle snorted angrily. She had experienced a bad night, added to which the fire had resented her onslaught by incontinently going out, necessitating an appeal to a mere child.
Having assumed a collar, a coat and waistcoat, Bindle strolled round the camp exchanging a word here and a word there with his fellow campers, who, in an atmosphere of intense profanity, were engaged in getting breakfast.
"Never 'eard such language," muttered Bindle with a grin. "This 'ere little camp'll send a rare lot o' people to a place where they won't meet the bishop."
At the end of half-an-hour he returned and found tea, eggs and bacon, and Mrs. Bindle waiting for him.