"—Are kind-'earted by nature. I belongs, ma'am—leastways, I did,— to Maggs's Circus—if you know it—"
"I've heard Maggs's troupe very well spoken of. But, as you'll understand, I do very little visitin'."
"I was 'appy enough with Maggs's, ma'am. But first of all a pony laid me up with a kick, an' then I stole Arthur Miles 'ere out of the 'Oly Innercents—"
Tilda broke down for a moment, recovered herself, and with sobs told her story.
For a while, after she had ended it, the Fat Lady kept silence. Sam, breathing hard, still doubtful of the child's bold policy, feared what this silence might portend.
"Give me your hand, young man," said the Fat Lady at length.
Sam reached out in the darkness, and grasped hers fervently.
"I didn't ask you to shake it. I want to be helped out to the fresh air, and then these children'll march straight home with me to my caravan."
"But," stammered Sam, not yet clear that he had found an ally, "—but that's leadin' 'em straight into Gavel's arms!"
"Young man," replied the lady austerely, "it leads into no man's arms." But a moment later she dropped her voice, and added with a touch of pathos, "I'm the loneliest woman in the world, outside of show hours; and if you thought a little you might know it."