A stout woman, seated at the entrance beside a drum
on which she counted her change, thrust out an arm of no mean
proportions to block his entrance, and demanded twopence, fee for
admission.
The Major, who had forgotten this formality, dipped his hand into his
breeches pocket and tendered her a guinea. She eyed it suspiciously,
took it, rang it on the lid of her money-box, and, recognising it for
a genuine coin, at once transferred her suspicions to him.
"Tuppence out of a guinea?" she sniffed. "Not likely, with a man of
_your_ looks."
"It's genuine, ma'am."
"I ain't a fool," answered the lady. "I was wondering how you came
by it. Well, anyway, I can't give you change; so take yourself off,
please."
He argued, but she was obdurate. She hadn't the change about her,
she affirmed, with a jerk of her thumb towards the interior of the
tent. Their takings to-day hadn't amounted to five shillings, as she
was a Christian woman.
The Major, glancing beneath the tent-cloth, spied a melancholy man
extracting ribbons from his mouth before an audience of three men, a
child and a woman. He heard Ben Jope's voice raised in approval.
He announced that he would wait outside until the performance
concluded.
"Twenty minutes," said the stout woman nonchalantly.
"Good evening, ma'am," said he, and stepping back, began to pace to
and fro in front of the tent.
Why had he followed this man who, if you looked at it in one way, had
been the prime cause of all his calamity? He smiled grimly at the
thought that, as justice went in this world, he should be tracking
Ben Jope down in a cold passion of revenge; whereas, in fact, he was
hungry to grip the honest fellow's hand.
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