That day the Tired Workers dined because of Mrs. Bindle, and they knew it. Various were the remarks exchanged among the groups collected outside the tents.
"She didn't 'alf order the bishop about," remarked to his wife the man who should have gone to Yarmouth.
"Any way, if it 'adn't been for 'er you'd 'ave 'ad cinders instead o' baked chops and onions for yer dinner," was the rejoinder, as his wife, a waspish little woman, rubbed a piece of bread round her plate. "She ain't got much to learn about a kitchen stove, I'll say that for 'er," she added, with the air of one who sees virtue in unaccustomed places.
That afternoon when Bindle was lying down inside the tent, endeavouring to digest some fifty per cent. more sausage-toad-in-the-hole than he was licensed to carry, he was aroused from a doze by the sound of voices without.
"We brought 'em for you, missis." It was the man with the stubbly chin speaking.
"Must 'ave made you a bit firsty, all that 'eat," remarked another voice.
Bindle sat up. Events were becoming interesting. He crept to the opening of the tent and slightly pulled aside the flap.
"Best dinner we've 'ad yet." The speaker was the man who had seen a field-kitchen dissected at Givenchy. He was just in the line of Bindle's vision.
Pulling the flap still further aside, he saw half-a-dozen men standing awkwardly before Mrs. Bindle who, with a bottle of Guinness' stout in either hand, was actually smiling.
"It's very kind of you," she said. "Thank you very much."