Jope's horse
had come to a stop. He arrived, but too late. Mr. Jope had
disappeared.
A moment later, however, the Major caught sight of him, elbowing his
way through the gut of a narrow lane leading off the Quay by the
fish-market, and gave chase. But the weight in his pockets
handicapped him, and the crowd seemed to take a malicious delight in
blocking his way.
Nevertheless he kept his quarry in sight. A dozen times at least Mr.
Jope halted before a shop or a booth and dallied, staring, but ever
on the point of capture he would start off again, threading the
throng with extreme nimbleness. With a dexterity as marvellous as it
was unconscious, he dodged his pursuer past the Broad Ship, up Custom
House Hill, along Passage Street, out through the Tollway Arch and
among the greater shows--the menagerie, the marionettes, the
travelling theatre--all in full blast, almost to the extreme edge of
the fair, where it melted into the darkness of the woods and the high
road winding up between them into open country. Here, hanging on his
heel for a moment, he appeared to make a final choice between these
many attractions, and dived into a booth over which a flaming board
announced a conjuring entertainment by Professor Boscoboglio,--
"Prestidigitateur to the Allied Sovereigns."
The Major spied Mr. Jope's broad back as he dipped and entered
beneath the flap of the tent; and followed, elate at having run his
quarry to earth.
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