Sam lit another match.
"I was fearin'—" he began, but broke off. "If you could manage, ma'am, to draw up your knee an inch or so—or if you wouldn' mind my takin' a pull—"
"Not at all," said Mrs. Lobb. "I'm used to bein' pinched."
Sam gripped the knee-pan firmly, and hauled.
"O-ow!" cried Mrs. Lobb. But the wrench had set her free to uncross her legs, and she did so, murmuring her gratitude.
There had been (Sam now explained) a false alarm. In the midst of the merry-making, and while the roundabouts were crowded and going at full speed, the boy in charge of the engine had taken occasion to announce to the lady at the pay-table that his pressure was a hundred-and-forty-seven, and what had taken the safety valve he couldn't think. Whereupon the lady at the pay-table had started up, scattering her coins, and shrieked; and this had started the stampede. "Which," added Sam in a whisper to Tilda, "was lucky for us in a way; becos Glasson, after tacklin' Mortimer be'ind the scenes an' threatenin' to have his blood in a bottle, had started off with Gavel to fetch the perlice. An' the question is if they won't be watchin' the gates by this time."
"In my young days," announced the Fat Lady, with disconcerting suddenness, "it was thought rude to whisper."
Tilda took a swift resolution.
"The truth is, ma'am, we're in trouble, an' 'idin' 'ere. I wouldn' dare to tell yer, on'y they say that people o' your—I mean, in your—"
"Profession," suggested the Fat Lady.