"But we want it to burn up," he protested.
Mrs. Bindle ostentatiously turned upon him a narrow back.
"You ought to know better, at least, Bindle," she snapped, and proceeded to give him instruction in the art of encouraging a fire.
"You'd better take some out," she said.
"'Ere ole sport," cried Bindle, "give us——" he stopped suddenly. His assistant had disappeared.
"You mustn't let anyone put anything in until the oven's hot," continued Mrs. Bindle, "and you mustn't open the door too often. You'd better fix a time when they can bring the food, say eleven o'clock."
"Early doors threepence extra?" queried Bindle.
"We're going to have sausage-toad-in-the-hole, and mind you don't burn it."
"I'll watch it as if it was my own cheeild," vowed Bindle.
"If the bishop knew you as I know you, he wouldn't have trusted you with this," said Mrs. Bindle, as she walked away with indrawn lips and head in the air, stepping with the self-consciousness of a bantam that feels its spurs.