"Not till September," put in another.
"August," said the first speaker aggressively, and the two proceeded fiercely to discuss the date of the Yarmouth Races.
When the argument had gone as far as it could without blows, and had quieted all other conversation, Bindle slipped away from the group and returned to the tent to find Mrs. Bindle busy preparing breakfast.
He smacked his lips with the consciousness that of all the campers he was the best fed.
"Gettin' a move on," he cried cheerily, and once more he smacked his lips.
"Pity you can't do something to help," she retorted, "instead of loafing about with that pack of lazy scamps."
Bindle retired to the interior of the tent and proceeded with his toilet.
"That's right, take no notice when I speak to you," she snapped.
"Oh, my Gawd!" he groaned. "It's scratch all night an' scrap all day. It's an 'oliday all right."
He strove to think of something tactful to say; but at the moment nothing seemed to suggest itself, and Mrs. Bindle viciously broke three eggs into the frying-pan in which bacon was already sizzling, like an energetic wireless-plant.