Mr. Hearty had proved himself to be a man of action. Mrs. Bindle's glowing account of vast stores of strawberries, to be had almost for the asking, had torn from him a telegram announcing that he would be at the Summer-Camp for Tired Workers soon after two o'clock that, Monday, afternoon.
Mrs. Bindle was almost genial at the prospect of seeing her brother-in-law, and earning his thanks for assistance rendered. Conditions at the camp remained unchanged. After the service on the previous day, the bishop had once more disappeared, ostensibly in pursuit of the errant field-kitchen and marquee, promising to return early the following afternoon.
Arrived at the gate on the further side of the field, Bindle paused. Then, as Mrs. Bindle refused his suggestion that he should "'oist" her up, he himself climbed on to the top-rail and sat contentedly smoking.
"I don't seem to see 'Earty a-walkin' across a field," he remarked meditatively. "It don't seem natural."
"You can't see anything but what's in your own wicked mind," she retorted acidly.
"Well, well!" he said philosophically. "P'raps you're right. I suppose we shall see them merry whiskers of 'is a-comin' round the corner, 'im a-leadin' a lamb with a pink ribbon. I can see 'Earty with a little lamb, an' a sprig o' mint for the sauce."
For nearly a quarter of an hour Bindle smoked in silence, whilst Mrs. Bindle stood with eyes fixed upon a stile on the opposite side of the field, over which Mr. Hearty was due to come.
"What was that?"
Involuntarily she clutched Bindle's knee, as a tremendous roar broke the stillness of the summer afternoon.
"That's ole Farmer Timkins' bull," explained Bindle. "Rare ole sport, 'e is. Tossed a cove last week, an' made a rare mess of 'im."