"Wot time you goin' to 'ave dinner, Lizzie?" he asked, with all the geniality of a prodigal doubtful of his welcome. "I've had it." Mrs. Bindle's lips met in a hard, firm line. "Is mine in the oven?" "Better look and see." He walked across to the stove and opened the[Pg 36] oven door. It was as bare as the cupboard of Mrs. Hubbard. [Pg 36] "Wot you done with it, Lizzie?" he enquired, misgiving clutching at his heart. "What have I done with what?" she snapped, as she brought her iron down with a bang that caused him to jump. "My little bit o' groundsel." "When you talk sense, perhaps I can understand you." "My dinner," he explained with an injured air. "When you've done a day's work you'll get a day's dinner, and not before." "But the strike's orf." "So's the lock-out." "But——" "Don't stand there 'butting' me. Go and do some work, then you'll have something to eat," and Mrs. Bindle reversed the pillow-case she was ironing, and got in a straight right full in the centre of it, whilst Bindle turned gloomily to the door and made his way to The Yellow Ostrich, where, over a pint of beer and some bread and cheese, he gloomed his discontent. "No more strikes for me," said a man seated opposite, who was similarly engaged. "Same 'ere," said Bindle. "Bob Cunham got a flea in 'is ear this mornin' wot 'e's been askin' for," said the
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