It was not without a thrill that, setting the volumes on a hanging flap that Duke had changed for her into a table, she went back over the pages of faded ink that told of toils and tribulations in the years before she had come into being: as a carrier she was peculiarly sensitive to these records of wrecked tents and ruined takings. Through the peace of the summer morning in that poky caravan, the winds from that pre-natal period seemed to be rushing, its snows falling, its hails and thunders crashing, and with these imagined tempests came up the thought of Will. What was he doing now, with his beautiful black horses? Was he looking for Mr. Flippance at “The Black Sheep”? But the thought of him was too agitating; she crushed it down and got absorbed in her task and the tales the figures told: the blanks carefully explained by Good Friday or royal mourning or the journey to some distant pitch; the varying cost of these pitches in publicans’ meadows; the varying expense of cartage; the sudden jumps in the takings, due—as annotated—to high days and holidays, or to royal weddings, or to favourite pieces. She wondered why Mr. Duke ever played any others. “What is D.F.N.?” she asked suddenly. “Dismissed. Fine night,” said Mr. Duke in melancholy accents. It was the supreme tragedy. “_Although_ a fine night,” he explained, rubbing it in to himself, “not enough to be worth playing to.” “You didn’t always do good business, you see,” gurgled Tony from the gin-glass he had imperceptibly acquired. “Accidents will happen,” Duke retorted. “And what is D.S.?” put in Jinny. “Dismissed. Snow?” “D.S. is diddling show,” explained Duke gloomily. “I struck one only last week at the very public-house I hired my pitch from.” “That wasn’t playing fair,” said Tony. “No, indeed. They stuck a placard in the window, ‘Great Water Otter. Free.’ And when you’d had your drink they took you to the stables to see it in its tub. There were crowds every night. It was put in the paper.” Tony grinned. “‘Lord, what fools these mortals be!’” “But why?” asked Jinny. “I’d rather see a water-otter than a dancing doll.” “You’re not even a country mouse,” said Tony. “When the fools push and squeeze to get near the tub, they warn ’em, ‘Don’t go too near!’ And all the while it’s only a big iron kettle—a water-’otter. See!” Jinny laughed. “Yes, that’s what they all do,” said Duke dismally. “Laugh and help to gull the others. And between them the legitimate goes to the dogs.” “Or the otters.” Jinny bent in lighter spirits over the twin volumes. “I’m afraid you’ve lost, Mr. Flippance,” she announced at last. “I can’t see any drama week of Mr. Duke’s that goes as high as the worst of his marionette weeks.”