ees. It was then
that her voice or some movement brought to Jeremy's eyes so vividly
the figure of their old gardener, Jordan, that he turned round to Uncle
Samuel, and suddenly grasping that gentleman's fat thigh, exclaimed
convulsively: "Why, she's a man!"

What a strange topsy-turvy world this was in which women were men, and
shops turned (as with a sudden creaking and darkness and clattering did
this one) into gardens by the sea. Jeremy drew his breath deeply and
held on. His mouth was open and his hair on end.. .

It is impossible to define exactly Jeremy's ultimate impression as
the entertainment proceeded. Perhaps he had no ultimate impression. It
cannot in reality have been a very wonderful Pantomime. Even at Drury
Lane thirty years back there were many things that they did not know,
and it is not likely that a touring company fitted into so inadequate
an old building as our Assembly Rooms would have provided anything very
fine. But Jeremy will never again discover so complete a realisation
for his illusions. Whatever failures in the presentation there were, he
himself made good.

As a finale to the first half of the entertainment there was given
Dick's dream at the Cross-Roads. He lay on the hard ground, his head
upon his bundle, the cat as large as he watching sympathetically beside
him. In the distance were the lights of London, and then, out of the
half dusk, fairies glittering with stars and silver danced up and
down the dusky road whilst all the London bells rang out "Turn again,
Whittington, Lord Mayor of London."

Had Jeremy been of the age and wisdom of Uncle Samuel he would have
discovered that Dick was a stout lady and probably the mother of a
growing family; that the fairies knew as much about dancing as the
Glebeshire wives sitting on the bench behind; that the London bells
were two hand instruments worked by a youth in shirt sleeves behind the
scenes so energetically that the High Road and the painted London blew
backwards and forwards in sympathy with his movements. Jeremy, happily,
was not so worldly wise as his uncle. This scene created for him then a
tradition of imperishable beauty that would never fade again. The world
after that night would be a more magical place than it had ever been
before. "Turn again, Whittington" continued the education that the Toy
Village and Hamlet had already advanced.

When the gas rose once again, sizzling like crackling bacon, he was
white with excitement.