“Now’s your time, good people; walk up—walk up! You’d better by half come in at once, if you means coming; we are just going to begin. Grand spectacular romantic melodrama as ’ud move the heart of a stone. This way, gentlemen!”
The harsh clang of unmusical instruments from within, the shaking of the tent, and the delighted shouts of the audience proved the interesting fact that there were still some spots in the world where theatrical announcements were not impostures.
The wild beasts had been fed, Wombwell’s brass band had finished their last tune, and the shaven-cheeked, greasy-headed performers were packing up their instruments, chewing their sore lips, and stretching their cramped and weary limbs.
Life and jollity now rolled towards the dancing booths, washing into its stream all those who had been shooting at the nut stalls, or who had been to see the calf with six legs, the wonderful donkey, or the live mermaid, or had been peeping in at the panorama of the “Orful Massacres in the Injees,” in which the artist, wisely sacrificing truth to effect, had painted the murderous Sepoys as black as saucepans, with blubber lips, frizzly hair, white waistcloths, and long spears, dripping with gore.
Between two gingerbread stalls there was a brave battle between the crowds.
Crowd No. 1 making for public-house, L.H.; crowd No. 2 pushing for dancing-booth, Op.
Both crowds were composed of free Britons, who will never believe that retreats are sometimes judicious.
Three men in particular might have been seen pushing first one way and then the other, as if they rather enjoyed the scramble than otherwise.
This did not escape the observation of the others, who cried—
“Now then, you sir, keep yer elbows to yerself. You aint everybody.”