“Well,” said William, “you jolly well stayed on.”
“It seemed,” she said, “such a pity to get off.”
CLINGING CONVULSIVELY TO THE POLE WITH ONE
ELASTIC-SIDED BOOT WAVING WILDLY.
The little party moved from the roundabout followed by most of the crowd. The crowd liked Aunt Jane. They wouldn’t have lost sight of her for anything. Aunt Jane, for the first time in her life, appealed to the British Public. William and his friends felt themselves to be in a curious position. They had meant to leave Aunt Jane to her fate and go off to their own devices. But it did not seem possible to leave Aunt Jane, because everything seemed to centre round Aunt Jane, and they would only have been at the back of the crowd instead of at the front. But they felt that their position as escort of Aunt Jane was not a dignified one. Moreover, their feats drew forth none of the applause which Aunt Jane’s feats drew forth. They felt neglected by the world in general.
Aunt Jane was next attracted by the poster of the Fat Woman outside one of the tents. She fixed her spectacles sternly, and approached the man who was crying the charms of the damsel.
“Surely that picture is a gross exaggeration, my good man?” she said.
“Hexaggeration?” he repeated. “It isn’t ’arf the truth. That’s wot it isn’t. It isn’t ’arf the truth. We—we couldn’t get ’er on the picture if we made ’er as big as wot she is. Hexaggeration? Why—she’s a walkin’ mountain, that’s wot she is. A reg’lar walkin’ mountain. Come in and see ’er. Come in and judge for yerselves. Jus’ come in and see if wot I’m tellin’ yer isn’t gospel.”
Somehow or other they were swept in. Aunt Jane sat on the front seat. She gazed intently upon the Fat Woman, who sat at her ease upon a small platform.
“She seems,” said Aunt Jane, “unnaturally large, certainly.”