Mr. Wrench had kept his eyes open throughout the livelong day. He had, in company with Joe and Nell Fulford, visited most of the shows, but had not met with the man he was in search of, but he did not feel disposed to give up the search as hopeless.
He partook of a substantial meal with his two friends in a small public-house, which stood just outside the fair.
Night drew on apace, but the devotees to pleasure were not sated. They had come to see all that could be seen, and the village carnival was just as crowded after nightfall as it had been during the bright and sunny hours of the day.
The quietly-disposed village folks retired to their beds. This was a mere matter of form, for the noise in the streets placed sleep out of the question.
Now, indeed, the real fun of the fair commenced.
Now the whole company of the very minor theatre were assembled upon the outer platform, and the man with the leathern-lunged voice was as vociferous as ever. He was a little hoarse with constant shouting, but this did not matter—he contrived to make himself heard.
The company on the platform went through a wild pantomime, in which the clown was ill-treated by everybody.
He was unmercifully whipped by a man in jackboots, but was heedless of the punishment which, to say the truth, did not appear to affect him in the slightest degree. He contented himself with making grimaces in revenge, at which the people laughed till they cried again.
They had come to enjoy themselves, and it did not take much to move them to laughter.
The external preliminaries having been concluded on the platform of Richardson’s celebrated booth, the dramatis personæ retired behind the curtain, the man with the leathern lungs shouting out at the top of his voice—