old fellow's cudgel was a dream. 

 We decided that I had better stick to Punch and Punch alone. For the others she would be answerable. 

 After rehearsing for half an hour, we stopped for breakfast. In the absence of cutlery, it was a ragged meal, but what mattered that? We were for letting the world slip—we should ne'er be younger. 

 People were stirring now. Carts rumbled in the distance, and cars sang past on the long, white road. Presently came one that slowed and slowed and stopped. 

 It was unfortunate that, but a moment before, I should have grown impatient of a large piece of crust and thrust it bodily into my mouth. But although articulation at this interesting juncture was out of the question, I laid an eloquent hand upon her arm and crowded as much expression as I could into a swollen and distorted visage. She glanced at me and collapsed in silent infectious laughter. And so it happened that, while we two conspirators lay shaking in the bracken, her friends turned their car wonderingly round and drove slowly back into the village away from her they sought. 

 Another hour and a half of somewhat desultory rehearsal found us 'wootle' perfect and ready for anything. So we laid the puppets by, fed Toby with brown bread and tongue, and rested against the labours of the afternoon. 

 The time passed quickly enough—too quickly. 

 

 It was a few minutes past one when, having adjusted my mask and slid my nose into position, I got the booth upon my shoulders and stepped out into the road. 

 "Come along," I said encouragingly. 

 "I'm afraid. Oh, there's something coming." 

 "Nonsense! I wish I hadn't packed that bludgeon." 

 "I'm nervous, Punch." 

 "Will you make me drag you along by the hair of your head? Of course, it'd be in the picture right enough, but I rather want two hands for this infernal booth. However, let me once get a good grip on that soft pigtail—" 

 "What—again?" 

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