‘Red light? I don’t see no red light. It’s some damned fool’s been having a blooming game with us—that was all.’
And so, with a rich accompaniment of expletives from stoker and driver, the express proceeded upon its way.
Mr. Trimblerigg, in a much more shaken state, did the same.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A Run for Life
THE shock of his escape had left Mr. Trimblerigg dazed and tremulous. He went feebly, not yet quite reawakened to the world which, in that moment of exaltation, he had thought to be leaving behind him. But instinct, and the loud jolly sounds of his fellow-creatures drew him toward the glaring lights and bustle of the fair-ground. An illuminated crowd was a refuge from his condition; amid the flare of those naphtha lamps his radiance would be unapparent.
But while he thus moved toward the light, he forgot that his back was to darkness, and as he skirted the outer circle of the booths, standing shoulder to shoulder with their farther sides dressed to the staring crowd in gaudy habiliments of painted canvas, he was startled to hear a voice exclaim, ‘What’s that bloody sunset doing there?’ and to perceive that it was directed at him.
The showman, jumping down from the back door of his van, ran hastily towards him, thrust a bewildered face at him, and stopped amazed. ‘Well, of all blinking wonders,’ he cried, ‘you take the cake!’
Mr. Trimblerigg, trying by superior calmness to control the awkward situation, wished him a good evening, and was for passing on.
The man caught him by the arm. ‘Here! which of the blooming shows d’you belong to? I hadn’t heard tell of you.’
Mr. Trimblerigg replied that he did not belong to any show. The man was dumbfounded.