Reginald (an imaginative child). Does he feed them one at a time or all together, mother?
The M.F. Hush, dear.
Mr. S. I will now show you Edward, champion flea of the world.
Edward is indeed a magnificent creature. He is drawing a light racing hansom and he shows an amazing turn of speed. Eustace with his heavy old four-wheeler has a long start, but in a moment Edward is up with him; he has passed him.
Reginald (breathlessly). Mother, he’s running!
And so he is. He is making a bee-line for the M.F. Will he reach her? No. Mr. Slint has coolly picked up Edward’s hansom and is showing him to the spectators through a magnifying-glass. The limelight is thrown on to Edward’s swarthy features and by an ingenious use of the cinema we are now shown a striking “close-up” of Edward’s expression as he is passed round before the people in the tent, hanging in his tiny collar at the end of the human hair. Rage, hatred, mortification, boredom, and what can only be described as the lust for blood are indicated in turn by the rolling eyes, the mobile lips. And, as he passes before the M.F., he wears a look of thwarted ambition which makes one shudder.
Now comes the final spectacle. Out of the little box Mr. Slint rapidly takes cab after cab and sets them on the white board, line abreast. Each cab is drawn by a single devoted flea. On the right of the line is Edward, on the left is Eustace. In perfect order the fleas advance, dressing by the right....
It is a moving sight. There is something very sinister in that steady, noiseless, calculated progress—for I need not say that the fleas are moving away from Mr. Slint: they are moving with machine-like precision towards Reginald. No, they have changed direction. Edward has given them “Right incline!” They are moving with machine-like precision, silent, inexorable, cabs and all, towards the materfamilias.
R. (Shrilly, still worried). Do they have to be unharnessed for meals, mother?
The M.F. Hush, dear.