[The tedium is relieved by a very audible dispute
outside between the Driver of the Baby's Caravan and the
Wife of the Conjuror next door, who appears to have
excited the Driver's displeasure by consenting to take
the money in the absence of the Baby's proprietress.

_The Driver_ (_with dignity_). I consider it a bloomin' liberty, and a
downright piece of himpertinence, you comin' 'ere interferin' with with
my business--and so I tell yer!

_The Lady_ (_with more dignity_). I'm not taking no liberties with
nobody--she ast me to it, or I shoudn't _be_ 'ere--_I_ don't want to
take the money, not without bein' ast to do so. She come and ast me to
take her place while she was away, and in course _I_ wasn't goin' to say
no.

_Driver._ Don't you tork to me. I know what _you_ are, puttin' yerself
forward whenever yer can--a goin' tellin' the people on the road as you
was the Baby's mother!

_The Lady._ I never said no such thing! Why should I want to tell sech a
story for?

_Driver._ Arsk yourself--not me. And p'raps you never said you 'ad
valuable property in our waggin' neither.

_Lady_ (_apparently cut to the heart by this accusation_). It's a
false'ood! I never 'ad no valuable property in your waggin', nor yet
nobody else's; and I'll thank you to keep your distance, and not go
raggin' me.

_Driver_ (_edging nearer_), I'll keep _my_ distance. But don't you make
no mistake--I'm not to be _played_ with! I'm sick o' your goin's on. And
then(_reviving a rankling and mysterious grievance_) to think o' you a
comin' mincin' up on the road with yer(_mimicking_), "Oh, yus, Mrs.
FAIRCHILD, there's a blacksmith jest across the way!" What call 'ad you
got to shove _your_ nose in like that, eh? you're a interferin' cat,
that's what _you_ are!

[The Conjuror's Lady is moved to the verge of tears and
assault, and her wrath is only assuaged by the arrival
of the missing Proprietress, who patches up a temporary
peace; presently the hangings at the back are parted,
and an immensely stout child, dressed in an infant's
frock, waddles in, hoists herself on the platform and
into the chair, from which she regards the Spectators
with stolid composure; the small boys edge back, nudge
one another and snigger furtively; the girls say "Oh,
lor!" in a whisper, and a painful silence follows.

_A Middle-aged Labourer_ (_feeling the awkwardness of the situation_).
'Ow old may you be,