"All right now," growled the man with the stubbly chin as he looked up at the grey scudding clouds and then down at the rain-soaked grass. "We would if we was ducks, or ruddy boy scouts; but we're men, we are—on 'oliday," he added with inspiration, and he withdrew to his tent, conscious that he had voiced the opinion of all.
V
Later that morning three carts, laden with luggage, rumbled their way up to West Boxton railway-station, followed by a straggling stream of men, women, and children. Overhead heavy rainclouds swung threateningly across the sky. Men were smoking their pipes contentedly, for theirs was the peace which comes of full knowledge. Behind them they had left a litter of bell-tents and the conviction that Daisy in all probability would explode before dinner-time. What cared they? A few hours hence they would be once more in their known and understood Fulham.
As they reached the station they saw two men struggling with a grey mass that looked like a deflated balloon.
The men hailed the party and appealed for help.
"It's the ruddy marquee," cried a voice.
"The blinkin' tent," cried another, not to be outdone in speculative intelligence.
"You can take it back with you," cried one of the men from the truck.
"We're demobbed, ole son," said Bindle cheerily. "We've struck."
"No more blinkin' camps for me," said the man with the stubbly chin.