ed low to the right
and left, picked up an imaginary bouquet, and threw three kisses to
hypothetical "gods."

"Come, come, Bony," she said, patting the Living Skeleton on the back,
"buck up, man. If my old man couldn't think of me for ten minutes without
snivelling, I'd have a divorce."

Matty Cann smiled wanly. He had no great cause to "buck up," his share of
the boiled leg would be very small indeed and entirely knuckle, the
Professor holding that the knuckle end was not fat-producing.

"It's Jane's birthday this day week, an' little Mat'll be two year old
the day after. I was wonderin' if I could get a day off t' visit me
fam'ly?" said Matty.

"And fat up over-eating yourself," said Thunder. "Not much, my boy!"

Matty groaned. "I give you me word I'd eat nothin' but ship's biscuit,"
he pleaded.

"Poor old Bony," said the Egyptian Mystic. "It's a pity your missus ain't
a bit of a freak, so as we could have her along. Now, if she could eat
fire we might find a place for her. Fire-eaters are very popular. I
suppose she couldn't learn to eat fire, Bony?"

The Living Skeleton shook his head gloomily over his poor meal. "I'm
afraid she couldn't," he said. "Jane ain't got any gifts."

The meal was finished, and the utensils were washed and restored to the
caravan cupboard, a zinc-lined packing case. Professor Thunder was down
on his back on the crisp grass again, smoking. He was feeling good, and
opened his heart.

"We'll top off with a touch of old Jamaica, Nickie, my boy," he said.
"There's a bottle in the box-seat. You might lead her out."

Nickie needed no second invitation. He sprang up with unaccustomed
alacrity, and passed out of the circle of light into the bush darkness.
He found the bottle in the locker under the driving seat, and stepping
down from the vehicle turned again towards the fire. The extraordinary
change in the peaceful scene he had just left flashed upon him with the
vividness of a tableau in melodrama The gifted members of Professor
Thunder's world company were no longer lounging carelessly on the grass,
they stood erect, grouped together, their faces, tense with fear and
amazement, showing whitey-yellow in the firelight, their hands thrown
above their heads. Facing them on the other side of the fire, with his
profile to Nicholas Crips, was a short, stoutly-built man, in a coarse
blue shirt and corduroy riding pants, with a white handkerchief tied
loosely about his neck. A fine chestnut h