He ate a sausage-roll and a piece of the admonitory jam-tart, listening keenly for sounds of Mrs. Bindle descending the stairs. Finally he seated himself on the stamped-plush couch and absent-mindedly lighted his pipe.
Presently he heard a soft tread upon the stairs, as if someone were endeavouring to descend without noise. He sighed his relief.
Ten minutes later he rose and stretched himself sleepily. There were obvious sounds of movement in the kitchen.
"Now if I wasn't the bloomin' coward wot I am," he remarked, as he took a final look round, "I'd light them two candles; but I ain't got the pluck."
With that he turned out the gas and closed the door.
"You take those bottles into the scullery and be quick about it," was Mrs. Bindle's greeting as he entered the kitchen.
She fixed her eye on the platoon of empty beer-bottles that Bindle had assembled upon the dresser.
He paused in the act of digging into his pipe with a match-stick. He had been prepared for the tail-end of a tornado, and this slight admonitory puff surprised him.
"Well! did you hear?"
Without a word the pipe was slipped into his pocket, and picking up a brace of bottles in either hand he passed into the scullery.