Mrs. Bindle: Some Incidents from the Domestic Life of the Bindles by Jenkins (romance novel chinese novels .TXT) 📕

he made another effort.

"You see, ma'am, when the wind's in the sou'west, Oscar gets a whiff o' them cows in the home——"

"How dare you!" The colour of Mrs. Bindle's cheeks transcended anything that Bindle had ever seen. "How dare you speak to me! How—you coarse—you—you disgusting beast!"

At the sight of Mrs. Bindle's blazing eyes and heaving chest, the farmer involuntarily retreated a step.

Several times he blinked his eyes in rapid succession.

Mr. Hearty turned and concentrated his gaze upon what the old man had described as "that there muck 'eap."

"Bindle!" cried Mrs. Bindle. "Will you stand by and let that man insult me? He's a coarse, low——" Her voice shook with suppressed passion. Mr. Hearty drew out his handkerchief and coughed into it.

For several seconds Mrs. Bindle stood glaring at the farmer, then, with a sudden movement, she turned and walked away with short, jerky steps of indignation.

Mr. Hearty continued to gaze at the muck heap, whilst the farmer watched the retreating form of Mrs.[Pg 206] Bindle, as if she had been a double-headed calf, or a three-legged duck.

When she had disappeared from sight round the corner of the house, he once more mopped his forehead with the coloured-handkerchief, then, thrusting it into his pocket, he resumed his hat with the air of a man who has escaped from some deadly peril.

"It's all that there Jim," he muttered. "I told him to look out for the wind and move them cows; but will he? Not if he knows it, dang him."

"Don't you take it to 'eart," said Bindle cheerily. "It ain't no good to start back-chat with my missis."

"But she said Oscar ought to be shot," grumbled the farmer. "Shoot Oscar!" he muttered to himself.

"You see, it's like this 'ere, religion's a funny thing. When it gets 'old of you, it either makes you mild, like 'Earty 'ere, or it makes you as 'ot as onions, like my missis. She don't mean no 'arm; but when you gone 'ead first over a stile, an' your sort o' shy about yer legs, it don't make you feel you wants to give yer sugar ticket to the bull wot did it."

"The—the strawberries, Joseph," Mr. Hearty broke in upon the conversation, addressing Bindle rather than the farmer, of whom he stood in some awe.

"Ah! dang it, o' course, them strawberries," cried the farmer, who had been advised by Patrol-leader Smithers that a potential customer would call. "Come along this way," and he led the way to a large barn, still mumbling under his breath.

"This way," he cried again, as he entered and pointed[Pg 207] to where stood row upon row of baskets full of strawberries, heavily scenting the air. Hearty walked across the barn, picked up a specimen of the fruit and bit it.

"What price are you asking for them?" he enquired.

"Fourpence," was the retort.

"I'm afraid," said Mr. Hearty with all the instincts of the chafferer, "that I could not pay more than——"

"Then go to hell!" roared the farmer. "You get off my farm or—or I'll let Oscar loose," he added with inspiration.

For the last quarter of an hour he had restrained himself with difficulty; but Mr. Hearty's bargaining instinct had been the spark that had ignited the volcano of his wrath.

Mr. Hearty started back violently; stumbled against a large stone and sat down with a suddenness that caused his teeth to rattle.

"Off you go!" yelled the farmer, purple with rage. "Here Jim," he shouted; but Mr. Hearty waited for nothing more. Picking himself up, he fled blindly, he knew not whither. It sufficed him that it should be away from that muscular arm which was gripping a formidable-looking crop.

Bindle turned to follow, feeling that his own popularity had been submerged in the negative qualities of his wife and brother-in-law; but the farmer put out a restraining hand.

"Not you," he said, "you come up to the house. I can give you a mug of ale the like of which you haven't tasted for years. I'm all upset, I am," he added, as if to excuse his outburst. "I'm not forgettin' that it[Pg 208] was you that came an' told me about Oscar. He might a-done a middlin' bit o' damage." Then, suddenly recollecting the cause of all the trouble, he added, "Dang that old Jim! It was them cows what did it. Shoot Oscar!"[Pg 209]

CHAPTER X THE COMING OF THE WHIRLWIND

I

"It's come, mate."

"Go away, we're not up yet," cried the voice of Mrs. Bindle from inside the tent.

"It's come, mate," repeated a lugubrious voice, which Bindle recognised as that of the tall, despondent man with the stubbly chin.

"Who's come?" demanded Bindle, sitting up and throwing the bedclothes from his chest, revealing a washed-out pink flannel night-shirt.

"The blinkin' field-kitchen," came the voice from without. "Comin' to 'ave a look at it?"

"Righto, ole sport. I'll be out in two ticks."

"I won't have that man coming up to the tent when—when we're not up," said Mrs. Bindle angrily.

"It's all right, Lizzie," reassured Bindle, "'e can't see through—an' 'e ain't that sort o' cove neither," he added.

Mrs. Bindle murmured an angry retort.

Five minutes later Bindle, with trailing braces, left the tent and joined the group of men and children[Pg 210] gazing at a battered object that was strangely reminiscent of Stevenson's first steam-engine.

"That's it," said the man with the stubbly chin, whose name was Barnes, known to his intimates as "'Arry," turning to greet Bindle and jerking a dirt-grimed thumb in the direction of the travelling field-kitchen.

Dubious heads were shaken. Many of the men had already had practical experience of the temperament possessed by an army field-kitchen.

"At Givenchy I see one of 'em cut in 'alf by a 'Crump,'" muttered a little dark-haired man, with red-rimmed eyes that seemed to blink automatically. "It wasn't 'alf a sight, neither," he added.

"Who's goin' to stoke?" demanded Barnes, rubbing his chin affectionately with the pad of his right thumb.

"'Im wot's been the wickedest," suggested Bindle.

They were in no mood for lightness, however. None had yet breakfasted, and all had suffered the acute inconvenience of camping under the supreme direction of a benign but misguided cleric.

"Wot the 'ell I come 'ere for, I don't know," said a man with a moist, dirty face. "Might a gone to Southend with my brother-in-law, I might," he added reminiscently.

"You wasn't 'alf a mug, was you?" remarked a wiry little man in a singlet and khaki trousers.

"You're right there, mate," was the response. "Blinkin' barmy I must a' been."

"I was goin' to Yarmouth," confided a third, "only[Pg 211] my missis got this ruddy camp on the streamin' brain. Jawed about it till I was sick and give in for peace an' quietness. Now, look at me."

"It's all the ruddy Government, a-startin' these 'ere stutterin' camps," complained a red-headed man with the face of a Bolshevist.

"They 'as races at Yarmouth, too," grumbled the previous speaker.

"Not till September," put in another.

"August," said the first speaker aggressively, and the two proceeded fiercely to discuss the date of the Yarmouth Races.

When the argument had gone as far as it could without blows, and had quieted all other conversation, Bindle slipped away from the group and returned to the tent to find Mrs. Bindle busy preparing breakfast.

He smacked his lips with the consciousness that of all the campers he was the best fed.

"Gettin' a move on," he cried cheerily, and once more he smacked his lips.

"Pity you can't do something to help," she retorted, "instead of loafing about with that pack of lazy scamps."

Bindle retired to the interior of the tent and proceeded with his toilet.

"That's right, take no notice when I speak to you," she snapped.

"Oh, my Gawd!" he groaned. "It's scratch all night an' scrap all day. It's an 'oliday all right."[Pg 212]

He strove to think of something tactful to say; but at the moment nothing seemed to suggest itself, and Mrs. Bindle viciously broke three eggs into the frying-pan in which bacon was already sizzling, like an energetic wireless-plant.

The savoury smell of the frying eggs and bacon reached Bindle inside the tent, inspiring him with feelings of benevolence and good-will.

"I'm sorry, Lizzie," he said contritely, "but I didn't 'ear you."

"You heard well enough what I said," was Mrs. Bindle's rejoinder, as she broke a fourth egg into the pan.

"The kitchen's come," he said pleasantly.

"Oh, has it?" Mrs. Bindle did not raise her eyes from the frying-pan she was holding over the scout-fire.

For a minute or two Bindle preserved silence, wondering what topic he possessed that would soothe her obvious irritation.

"They say the big tent's down at the station," he remarked, repeating a rumour he had heard when engaged in examining the field-kitchen.

Mrs. Bindle vouchsafed no reply.

"Did you sleep well, Lizzie?" he enquired.

"Sleep!" she repeated scornfully. "How was I to sleep on rough straw like that. I ache all over."

He saw that he had made a false move in introducing the subject of sleep.

"The milk hasn't come," she announced presently with the air of one making a statement she knew[Pg 213] would be unpopular. Bindle hated tea without milk.

"You don't say so," he remarked. "I must 'ave a word with Daisy. She didn't oughter be puttin' on 'er bloomin' frills."

"The paraffin's got into the sugar," was the next bombshell.

"Well, well," said Bindle. "I suppose you can't 'ave everythink as you would like it."

"Another time, perhaps you'll get up yourself and help with the meals."

"I ain't much at them sort o' things," he replied, conscious that Mrs. Bindle's anger was rising.

"You leave me to do everything, as if I was your slave instead of your wife."

Bindle remained silent. He realized that there were times when it was better to bow to the storm.

"Ain't it done yet?" he enquired, looking anxiously at the frying-pan.

"That's all you care about, your stomach," she cried, her voice rising hysterically. "So long as you've got plenty to eat, nothing else matters. I wonder I stand it. I—I——"

Bindle's eyes were still fixed anxiously upon the frying-pan, which, in her excitement, Mrs. Bindle was moving from side to side of the fire.

"Look out!" he cried, "you'll upset it, an' I'm as 'ungry as an 'awk."

Suddenly the light of madness sprang into her eyes.

"Oh! you are, are you? Well, get somebody else to cook your meals," and with that she inverted the[Pg 214] frying-pan, tipping the contents into the fire. As Bindle sprang up from the box on which he had been sitting, she rubbed the frying-pan into the ashes, making a hideous mess of the burning-wood, eggs and bacon.

With a scream that was half a sob, she fled to the shelter of the tent, leaving Bindle to gaze down upon the wreck of what had been intended for his breakfast.

Picking up a stick, charred at one end, he began to rake among the embers in the vague hope of being able to disinter from the wreck something that was eatable; but Mrs. Bindle's action in rubbing the frying-pan into the ashes had removed from the contents all semblance of food. With a sigh he rose to his feet to find the bishop gazing down at him.

"Had a mishap?" he asked pleasantly.

"You've 'it it, sir," grinned Bindle. "Twenty years ago," he added in a whisper.

"Twenty years ago!" murmured the bishop, a puzzled expression on his face. "What was twenty years ago?"

"The little mis'ap wot you was talkin' about, sir," explained Bindle, still in a whisper. "I married Mrs. B. then, an' she gets a bit jumpy now and again."

"I see," whispered the bishop, "she upset the breakfast."

"Well, sir, you can put it that way; but personally myself, I think it was the breakfast wot upset 'er."

"And you've got nothing to eat?"[Pg 215]

"Not even a tin to lick out, sir."

"Dear me, dear me!" cried the bishop, genuinely distressed, and then, suddenly catching sight of Barnes's lugubrious form appearing from behind a neighbouring tent, he hailed him.

Barnes approached with all the deliberation and unconcern of a pronounced fatalist.

"Our friend here has had a mishap," said the bishop, indicating the fire. "Will you go round to my tent and get some eggs and bacon. Hurry up, there's a good fellow."

Barnes turned on a deliberate heel, whilst Bindle and the bishop set themselves to the reconstruction of the scout-fire.

A quarter of an hour later, when Mrs. Bindle peeped out of the tent, she saw the bishop and Bindle engaged in frying eggs and bacon; whilst Barnes stood gazing down at them with impassive pessimism.

Rising to stretch his cramped legs, the bishop caught sight of Mrs. Bindle.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bindle. I hope your headache is better. Mr. Bindle has been telling me that he has had a mishap with your breakfast, so I'm helping him to cook it. I hope you won't mind if I join you in eating it."

"Now that's wot I call tack," muttered Bindle under his breath, "but my! ain't 'e a prize liar, 'im a parson too."

Mrs. Bindle came forward, an expression on her face that was generally kept for the Rev. Mr. MacFie, of the Alton