re first," Robert
shouted. "Only we've got to run like mad."

He seized Rufus by the hand and they shot free of the procession, up and
down dim and decorous streets, swerving round corners and past astonished
policemen whose "Now then, you young devils" was lost in the clatter of
their feet. Cosgrave gasped, but Robert's hold was relentless,
compelling. He could have run faster by himself, but somehow he could not
let Cosgrave go. "You've got to stick it," he hissed fiercely. "It's
only a minute."

Cosgrave had no choice but to "stick it." It did not even occur to him to
resist though his eyes seemed to be bulging out of his head and his lungs
on the point of bursting. But the reward was near at hand. There, at the
bottom of Griffith's Road, they could see it--the Green, unfamiliar with
its garish lights and the ghostly, gleaming tents.

"We've done it!" Robert shouted. "Hurrah--hurrah!"

They had, in fact, time to spare. The procession was still only half-way
down the High Street, a dull red glow, like the mouth of a fiery cave,
widening with every minute as though to swallow them. There was, indeed,
a disconcerting crowd gathered round the chief entrance, but Robert was
like a general, cool and vigorous, strung up to the finest pitch of
cunning. He wormed his way under the ropes, he edged and insinuated
himself between the idle and good-natured onlookers, with Cosgrave, tossed
and buffeted, but still in tow, struggling in the backwash. At last they
were through, next to the entrance, and in the very front row of all.

"Now you'll see the elephant," Robert laughed triumphantly, "every bit of
him,"

"Oh, my word!" Cosgrave gasped. "Oh, my word!"

It was coming. It made itself felt even before it came into sight by the
sudden tensity of the crowd, the anxious pressure from behind, the
determined pushing back by the righteously indignant in front, the craning
of necks, and indistinguishable, thrilling murmur. A small boy, whom
Robert recognized as the butcher's son, evidently torn between the dignity
and excitement of his new post, stalked ahead and thrust printed notices
into the outstretched hands. Robert seized hold of one, but he was too
excited to read. He felt Rufus poke him insistently.

"What's it say--what's it say?"

"Shut up--I don't know--look for yourself."

There they were. The six torch-bearers were dressed like mediaeval pages,
or near enough. Their tight-fitting cotton hose,