Sam struck a sulphur match.
"Good Lord!" he breathed, staring across the blue flame, and still as he stared his eyes grew larger and rounder.
"'Er name's Lobb," explained Tilda. "I oughter a-told yer."
"'Ow did it 'appen?" asked Sam in an awed voice.
"Igsplosion," said the Fat Lady.
"Is—is there goin' to be one?"
The match burned low in Sam's trembling fingers, and he dropped it with an exclamation of pain.
"There was one," said the Fat Lady. "At Gavel's roundabouts. Leastways, the folks came chargin' into my tent, which is next door, cryin' out that the boiler was blowin' up. I travel with Gavel, sir—as his Fat Lady—"
"Oh!" Sam drew a long breath.
"Which, when I heard it, sir, and the outcries, I burst out through the back of the tent—bein' a timorous woman—and ran for shelter. My fright, sir, I'll leave you to imagine. And then, as I crawled under the boards here, a dog flew at me—and bein' taken unawares—on all fours, too—I rolled over with my legs twisted—and here I am stuck. There's one joist pinnin' my left shoulder, and my leg's jammed under another; and stir I cannot."