“A cirkiss!” said the Slogger authoritatively.
A circus it was! Not one of your cheap affairs, mind, of amateur monkeys and two dogs and a goat, but a real, complete, elaborate, efficient circus, with just now its best artistes out to give to the town bold advertisement of its coming performance that afternoon. Four huge lumbering elephants strode along deliberately, men on their backs directing them with the touch of a stick; when an elephant lifted its trunk as though about to play something, the girls in the crowd that lined the village street shouted, “Oh—ah!” affrightedly, and stepped back on the toes of people behind them. Came, too, dainty white miniature horses, decorated with trappings and bells, and led by pages in such admirable costumes that it seemed almost a pity the wearers had not bethought themselves of shaving; handsome, proud, capering black horses ridden by sedate matrons in riding habits, who, being applauded by the lookers on, bowed graciously and touched their hats with their whips, but who, on the suggestion being loudly offered by Bobbie (now scarlet with excitement) that they should turn a somersault, frowned and looked at the crowd with the air of offended empresses. Piebald ponies, brown ponies, chestnut ponies and grey ponies, and, when you were tired of ponies, a gorgeous car with uniformed footmen walking soberly at its side, and high up in this car a lady with a trident and golden helmet and white robes, who gazed straight before her and sniffed a little, and once unfortunately gave a sneeze that sent the golden helmet a little awry, but who, despite these drawbacks (which, of course, were no reflection on her moral worth), looked a very fine and dignified figure of a woman.
“Who’s she supposed to be?” asked Bobbie.
“Britannier,” said the Slogger.
“I know what you mean,” said Bobbie.
The small girl who had attempted to cry, and now beamed, asked if the lady was related to the Britannia, Camden Town, and found herself for her ignorance derided by the rest of the party.
“Course not, you silly young silly,” replied Bobbie. “Britannia represents the country, and she’s the kind of mother of us all. Ain’t she, Slogger?”
“But s’pose you ain’t got a muvver?” said the small girl, thinking she had detected a flaw in the argument.
“Why, that’s jest where she comes in useful,” declared Bobbie. “Ain’t it, Slogger?”
“In a manner of speaking,” acknowledged the Slogger, cautiously, “yes.”