Tawdry Fair was for horses and bullocks, and a drove of the latter was being sent along from the market-place towards Stuntney. For a while the business of the sale was interrupted. One audacious bullock even bounded into the Galilee, another careered round the van; one ran as if for sanctuary to the Bishop's palace. Zita seized the occasion to slip inside the van. Her father was on the low seat, leaning his head wearily on his hand, and his elbow on his knee.
'How are you now, dad?'
'I be bad, Zit—bad—tremenjous.'
'Had you not best see a doctor?'
He shook his head.
'It'll pass,' said he; 'I reckon doctors won't do much for me. They're over much like us Cheap Jacks—all talk and trash.'
'This has been coming on some time,' observed the girl gravely. 'I've seen for a fortnight you have been poorly.'
Then, looking forth between the curtains which she had lowered, she saw that the bullocks were gone, and that the cluster of people interested in purchases had re-formed round her little stage.
'I say,' shouted a chorister, 'have you got any pocket-knives?'
'Pocket-knives by the score, and razors too. You'll be wanting a pair of them in a fortnight.'