Swiftly and quietly he opened the window and the outer door.
"You ain't no cook, J.B.," he muttered, as he unhitched the roller-towel and proceeded to use it as a fan, with the object of driving the smell out of the window and scullery-door.
When the air was clearer, he returned to the sink and, this time, filled both the saucepans with water and replaced them on the stove.
"I wonder wot I better do," he muttered, and he looked about him helplessly.
Then, with sudden inspiration, he remembered Mrs. Hearty.
Creeping softly upstairs, he put his head round the bedroom door and announced that he was going out to buy a paper. Without waiting for either criticism or comment, he quickly closed the door again.
Ten minutes later, he was opening the glass-panelled door, with the white curtains and blue tie-ups, that led from Mr. Hearty's Fulham shop to the parlour behind.
Mrs. Hearty was sitting at the table, a glass half-full of Guinness' stout before her.
At the sight of Bindle, she began to laugh, and laughter always reduced her to a state that was half-anguish, half-ecstasy.
"Oh, Joe!" she wheezed, and then began to heave and undulate with mirth.