Chapter Four.
The Elephant cries “Phoomp!”
Plymborough was out in street and road excepting those who lived on the line of route and had windows that looked down upon the coming procession, which was to be timed to reach the town, after a long march from Duncombe, at noon precisely.
Small things please country people, and there was not much work being done that day. It was an excuse for a holiday, as eagerly seized upon by the townsfolk, old and young, as by the young gentlemen of Dr Bewley’s establishment.
But that was not all. The villages near Plymborough were many, and the people for miles round flocked into the place to see the procession and stop afterwards about the market-place to visit the exhibition of beasts and listen to the band.
The day was gloriously fine, and all promised a famous harvest of sixpences for the great Ramball himself, a man as punctual in his appointments as he was in the feeding of his beasts, this being carried out regularly at certain times, but, unfortunately for the animals, in uncertain quantities dependent upon the supplies.
Dr Bewley’s boys took their places along the forms quite an hour before noon, this punctuality having something to do with getting the best places, as they put it, though—as the forms were in a line under the brick wall, which was low enough with their help for the shortest boy to see over, and the procession would pass close beneath—it was hard to see any difference in the positions, or why the form reserved for the masters was any better than that at the extreme end.
But certainly the masters’ form was considered the best from the fact that it stood first, while the nearest end of the next form was taken up in spite of his declaration by Slegge, whose greatest admirers got as close to him as they could or as he would allow.
“Let’s go and stand with them,” said Singh, as they crossed over to the wall.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied his companion. “I vote we go right to the other end along with the juniors.”