"Up to the blinkin' neck," said a big man with a dirt-grimed skin, voicing the opinion of all.
"There ain't no pubs," said a burly man with black whiskers, "no pictures, can't put a shillin' on an 'orse, can't do anythink——"
"But watch this ruddy cow," broke in the man with the stubbly chin.
"Well, well, p'raps you're right, only I couldn't 'ave said it 'alf as politely," said Bindle, with a grin. "We're all for good ole Fulham where a cove can lay the dust. Ain't that so, mates?"
The men expressed their agreement according to the intensity of their feelings.
"Well, listen," said Bindle, "an' I'll tell you." They drew nearer and listened.
Twenty minutes later, when the voice demanding 'Enery became too insistent to be denied, the party broke up, and there was in the eyes of all that which spoke of hope.
III
That night, as Patrol-leader Smithers had foretold, there arose a great wind which smote vigorously the tents of the Surrey Summer-Camp for Tired Workers. For a time the tents withstood the fury of the blast; they swayed and bent before it, putting up a vigorous defence however. Presently a shriek told of the first catastrophe; then followed another and yet another, and soon the darkness was rent by cries, shrieks, and lamentations, whilst somewhere near the Bindles' tent rose the voice of one crying from a wilderness of canvas for 'Enery.
Mrs. Bindle was awakened by the loud slatting of the tent-flap. Pandemonium seemed to have broken loose. The wind howled and whistled through the tent-ropes, the rain swept against the canvas sides with an ominous "swish," the pole bent as the tent swayed from side to side.