It was a regular ceremony; it took place every morning behind the small horse-tent. The doctor sat on the steps of the harness waggon, and the tent-men lounged round him in groups. He would knock the ashes carefully from his pipe, wipe his beery eyes, and clear his throat authoritatively before unfurling the Standard. He would begin at the top right-hand column of the inside page, reading mechanically almost right through the paper —the political speeches, the police news, the foreign telegrams, the theatrical notices, and the sporting intelligence—till he had come again to the advertisements. No one made any comment; the tent-men just loitered and listened; and when he had finished, they strolled away silently, as they had come. The scene, in its droll solemnity, struck me as curiously pathetic.
***
The "boss" was a podgy, thick-set little man; he had a ruddy moustache, and a merry twinkle in his small, round eyes. His clothes were always ragged, and smeared with mud; for a clean shirt, I fancy, he professed a convinced contempt. With every one, down to the youngest stable-boy, he was familiar and friendly; but, when he was roused, no one—not even Jim, the stud-groom—could compete with him in the matter of swearing. This "born gift" of his, as the men called it, had long ago won him universal respect. He lived in a luxurious waggon, the fittings of which had cost three hundred guineas. His father had been a circus proprietor before him. It was said that he was worth two hundred thousand pounds; and every morning he would strip and help the men hammer in the tent-pegs.
Mr. Henderson, the trick rider, shared the "boss's" waggon. He shaved every morning, wore clean cuffs, folded trousers, and
