"The little mis'ap wot you was talkin' about, sir," explained Bindle, still in a whisper. "I married Mrs. B. then, an' she gets a bit jumpy now and again."
"I see," whispered the bishop, "she upset the breakfast."
"Well, sir, you can put it that way; but personally myself, I think it was the breakfast wot upset 'er."
"And you've got nothing to eat?"
"Not even a tin to lick out, sir."
"Dear me, dear me!" cried the bishop, genuinely distressed, and then, suddenly catching sight of Barnes's lugubrious form appearing from behind a neighbouring tent, he hailed him.
Barnes approached with all the deliberation and unconcern of a pronounced fatalist.
"Our friend here has had a mishap," said the bishop, indicating the fire. "Will you go round to my tent and get some eggs and bacon. Hurry up, there's a good fellow."
Barnes turned on a deliberate heel, whilst Bindle and the bishop set themselves to the reconstruction of the scout-fire.
A quarter of an hour later, when Mrs. Bindle peeped out of the tent, she saw the bishop and Bindle engaged in frying eggs and bacon; whilst Barnes stood gazing down at them with impassive pessimism.