The man approached. He was wearing the same lugubrious look and the same waistcoat, unbuttoned in just the same manner that it had been unbuttoned the day before.
"You was right about them mattresses and the male birds," said Bindle, with a glance at Mrs. Bindle.
"The wot?" demanded the man, gazing vacantly at Bindle.
"The male birds."
"'Oo the 'ell—sorry, mum," to Mrs. Bindle. Then turning once more to Bindle he added, "Them cocks, you mean?"
"'Ush!" said Bindle. "They ain't cocks 'ere, they're male birds, an' roosters on Sunday. You see, my missis——" but Mrs. Bindle had risen and, with angry eyes, had disappeared into the tent.
"Got one of 'em?" queried Bindle, jerking his thumb in the direction of the aperture of the tent.
The man with the stubbly chin nodded dolefully.
"Thought so," said Bindle. "You looks it."
Whilst Bindle was strolling round the camp with the man with the stubbly chin, Mrs. Bindle was becoming better acquainted with the peculiar temperament of a bell-tent. She had already realised its disadvantages as a dressing-room. It was dark, it was small, it was stuffy. The two mattresses occupied practically the whole floor-space and there was nowhere to sit. It was impossible to move about freely, owing to the restrictions of space in the upper area.