Boodles and Aubrey hurried on, representatives of fun and laughter, which were otherwise somewhat wanting. It was too early in the day for excitement. The countryfolk were not yet warmed up; they were reserved, and took the holiday seriously; hanging about the streets with a lost expression, unwilling to change their shillings into pence, oppressed with the idea that it would be necessary soon to enjoy themselves, studiously avoiding the pleasure-ground in order that they might cling to their cash a little longer, and quite content to look on and listen, and welcome acquaintances with prolonged handshakes. The spending of the first penny was difficult; the rest would be easy. There were some who had not a penny to spend, and even they would be happy when the temperature went up. A poor plain girl from some remote village will stand in a puddle all day, and declare when she gets home she has never enjoyed herself so much in her life. It is a sufficient pleasure, for those who live in lonely places, to stand at a corner and stare at a rollicking crowd for a few hours. There was the fair within the town, and the fair without. That within was beside the Tavy and among the ruins of the Abbey; that without was also beside the Tavy, but upon the opposite bank. There was also the business-fair, where beasts were bargained for: ponies, bullocks, pigs, sheep, everything except geese. It was a festival which would have delighted the hearts of Abbot Cullyng's gay monks, who, it is recorded, wore secular garments about the town, divided their time between hunting the deer on Dartmoor and holding drunken suppers in their cells, and cared not at all for religious discipline or black-lettered tomes. Part of the fair is held upon the former site of those monastic buildings, and the ruin of Betsey Grimbal's tower looks down upon more honest pleasures from what was once the Abbey garden. The foundation was despoiled of its gold and silver images, and the drones were smoked out of their nest, centuries ago, and what was their refectory is now by the irony of fate a Unitarian chapel; and St. Goose has become a greater saint than St. Rumon, who was claimed as a bishop of renown by his Church, although secular history suggests no such gentleman ever lived.