"Because you’ve lost your temper with me, Joe, you needn't make yourself unsociable all round," Maggie called after him.
"I was going to get yer some fresh water. I see yer can's empty," he answered, reproachfully.
"Oh, there ain't no 'urry for that. Sit down and 'ave a fresh cup o' tea."
She faced round again, smiling through her tears, and filled up his cup, while the "lieutenant" went on winking and rolling himself a cigarette.
"An' Pimples," Maggie asked presently, "shall 'e 'ave this bit o' bacon what's left over?"
Joe shrugged his broad shoulders with an assumption of contemptuous indifference.
"Scottie," Maggie called, "'ere's a bit o' bacon for yer."
"I'm na goin' to tak' charity at my time o' life," the little man shouted, and, rising, strode defiantly out of the tent.
***
5.30 p.m.—The show was packed. The band was playing "Nancy Lee;" Quito, in his flesh-coloured tights, was cantering round the ring, and the children were roaring with laughter as Sam Giddens banged the boss over the head with a bladder.
For the last time I strolled through the tents. Outside the dressing-room I found "Jacko" kneeling on the ground, busy pasting the paper hoops; beside the tableaux the coons were fighting a gang of over-inquisitive dock-labourers, ousting them from the camp with a heavy volley of broken British oaths; and on the steps of the harness waggon the old doctor sat watching them, moodily puffing at his short black pipe. The "lieutenant" was waxing his coal-black moustache; Joe and "Scottie" were amicably
