kitchen fire with 'er at the other end of a poker." Then aloud he said, "You'd get an allowance while I'm away, and a pension when I dies o' killin' too many Germans."
Mrs. Bindle paused. "How much?" she asked practically.
"Oh, about a pound a week," said Bindle recklessly.
Mrs. Bindle put down the poker and proceeded to wash up. She seemed for ever washing up or sweeping. Presently she enquired:
"When are you goin'?"
"Well," said Bindle, "I thought of trottin' round to the War Office this afternoon and breakin' the news. It'll sort o' buck 'em up to know that I'm comin'."
Mrs. Bindle raised no further objections.
It was Saturday afternoon, and Bindle's time was his own. He joined the queue outside the Recruiting Station in the Fulham Road and patiently waited his turn, incidentally helping to pass the time of those around him by his pungent remarks.
"Lord!" he remarked, "we're a funny sort o' crowd to beat the Germans. Look at us: we ain't got a chest among the 'ole bloomin' lot."
At length Bindle stood before the recruiting officer, cap in hand and a happy look on his face.
"Name?" enquired the officer.
"Joseph Bindle."
