"It's come, mate," repeated a lugubrious voice, which Bindle recognised as that of the tall, despondent man with the stubbly chin.
"Who's come?" demanded Bindle, sitting up and throwing the bedclothes from his chest, revealing a washed-out pink flannel night-shirt.
"The blinkin' field-kitchen," came the voice from without. "Comin' to 'ave a look at it?"
"Righto, ole sport. I'll be out in two ticks."
"I won't have that man coming up to the tent when—when we're not up," said Mrs. Bindle angrily.
"It's all right, Lizzie," reassured Bindle, "'e can't see through—an' 'e ain't that sort o' cove neither," he added.
Mrs. Bindle murmured an angry retort.
Five minutes later Bindle, with trailing braces, left the tent and joined the group of men and children gazing at a battered object that was strangely reminiscent of Stevenson's first steam-engine.
"That's it," said the man with the stubbly chin, whose name was Barnes, known to his intimates as "'Arry," turning to greet Bindle and jerking a dirt-grimed thumb in the direction of the travelling field-kitchen.
Dubious heads were shaken. Many of the men had already had practical experience of the temperament possessed by an army field-kitchen.