caught a fitful glimpse of a drunken groom, muttering to himself as he belaboured a horse with his fist; then, of a sudden, Jim's voice bellowing behind me:
"Mind yerself. Shift them 'orses. The elephants are comin!" And their black, monstrous forms loomed in front of me, moving silently past, swinging their trunks from side to side.
"We always give 'em an hour's start. They can't do above three mile an hour. Come, bring them 'orses up to the bandwaggon. Here, boy, hold a light for 'im. Look alive; we're behind time as it is."
Already, on all sides, the rumblings of heavy wheels, and crackings of whips were starting up; the waggons were moving to their places. The nigger tent-men set a light to the soiled forage; the wind scattered the dense columns of smoke towards the sea, and the great tongues of crimson flame flickered up, licking the air, and revealing that the market-place had at last been cleared.
"All ready," sang Jim's swinging tones.
"All ready . . . . all ready," floated back a dozen wavering, distant answers.
"Into the buggy with yer. Pull the hay up round yer waist: it'll keep the cold out."
Ahead, through the twilight, toiling up the hill, we could perceive the long train of lumbering waggons, each with a ragged petroleum flame swinging beneath the axle.
"Pull ov—er. . . . . Pull ov—er," and one by one they made way for us as we cantered by them.
"Wake 'em up. . . . . Wake 'em up," and Jim, upright in buggy, lashed each successive team into a hand gallop.
When we had reached the front living-waggon, and only the wet, open road glimmering wanly in the sickly early morning light, lay ahead of us, back we turned down the hill again, waking
