"It's quite simple," said the bishop. "You light the fire here, that's the oven, and you boil things here, and—we shall soon get it going."
"I don't mind stokin', sir," said Bindle at length; "but I ain't a-goin' to take charge of 'oo's dinner's wot. If there's goin' to be any scrappin' with the ladies, well, I ain't in it."
Finally it was arranged that Bindle should start the fire and get the field-kitchen into working order, and that the putting-in the oven and taking-out again of the various dishes should be left to the discretion of the campers themselves, who were to be responsible for the length of time required to cook their own particular meals.
With astonishing energy, the bishop set the children to collect wood, and soon Bindle, throwing himself into the work with enthusiasm, had the fire well alight. There had arrived from the farm a good supply of coal and coke.
"You ain't 'alf 'it it unlucky, mate," said the man with the bristly chin. "'E ought to 'ave 'ired a cook," he added. "We come 'ere to enjoy ourselves, not to be blinkin' stokers. That's like them ruddy parsons," he added, "always wantin' somethin' for nuffin."
"'Ere, come along, cheerful," cried Bindle, "give me a 'and with this coke," and, a minute later, the lugubrious Barnes found himself sweating like a horse, and shovelling fuel into the kitchen's voracious maw.
"That's not the way!"
The man straightened his back and, with one hand on the spade, gazed at Mrs. Bindle, who had approached unobserved. With the grubby thumb of his other hand he rubbed his chin, giving to his unprepossessing features a lopsided appearance.
"Wot ain't the way, missis?" he asked with the air of one quite prepared to listen to reason.
"The coke should be damped," was the response, "and you're putting in too much."