Katerfelto: A Story of ExmoorWhyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
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Katerfelto: A Story of Exmoor
Whyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
Exmoor (England) -- Fiction
The band had just concluded a flourish of more than ordinary discord,
when a new arrival enhanced the excitement of the scene, causing a rush
from all quarters to encircle the strange vehicle, partly van, partly
cart, from which a pair of piebald horses, adorned with bells, were
unharnessed and turned loose to graze. With a dexterity that supplied
the want of screws, bolts, and such mechanical appliances, its occupant
quickly converted his carriage into a stage, on which articles of dress,
perfumery, and domestic use were exposed for sale; while he moved nimbly
about, flourishing over his head and displaying in turn laces, threads,
scissors, thimbles, a mousetrap, a gridiron, and a warming-pan, to the
intense delight of the bystanders. He was a meagre, active-looking man,
who might have been any age above fifty, wearing large green spectacles
to adorn a pale face and red nose, dressed in a blue coat bedizened with
gold lace, a red waistcoat, bright yellow breeches, silk stockings, and
an outrageously large cocked hat. Though his gestures were ludicrous,
and his jokes received with peals of laughter, his voice was grave, even
sad, and he never smiled; yet he had not occupied his post ten minutes
before every other attraction of the Revel was deserted in his favour.
The jack-pudding ceased his contortions, and embraced the opportunity to
swallow a mouthful of real brandy instead of artificial fire. The giant,
dwarf, and stout lady remained unsolicited in the retirement from which
they had not yet emerged; and even the strains of the band died away
into empty air without eliciting a single protest of disapproval or
regret. Dulverton Revel congregated itself round the stranger, and the
stranger seemed in all respects equal to the position.
"Haste thee, wench!" said every Jack to his Gill, accompanying the hint
with a dig in his lady's ribs; "Thic' be the vun o' the vair, I tell
'ee! Do 'ee lose never a morsel. Gie I a buss, that's a good wench, and
I'll warrant I'll vind thee a fairing!" After which elegant address, and
a struggle for the salute thus purchased in advance, the rustic pair
elbowed their way into the circle round the cart in a high state of glee
and delight.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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