Johnny, who was chary of speech at all times, and was besides slightly alarmed at being interrogated by so many strangers, returned no answer to this query, and announced instead loudly, and with a hint of not far distant tears in his voice, that he wanted “_Dada_”. “There, best take en to the Fair at once,” said the man who held him in his arms. “There’s sure to be some of his folks about. Come along, Johnny—we’ll go and look for Dada.” He hoisted up the child to one of his comrades, clambered himself to the higher level, and, taking him again in his arms, set off for the scene of the Fair, the others looking after him curiously for a moment or two, and then leisurely setting about their work. Johnny did not say much during the transit; he sat very upright, staring about him with all his eyes in his anxiety to catch the first glimpse of his father. As they entered the field where the Fair had taken place, and where were still many groups of busy people, a sudden outcry sounded from the neighbourhood of one of the large gipsy-vans which stood horsed and ready for further progress. A great red-bearded man, with a white face and wild, bloodshot eyes, was struggling in the midst of the little crowd which had closed about him, while the proprietor of the van, a swarthy, thick-set fellow, was evidently denouncing him. “That’s Dada!” cried Johnny eagerly. “There he is! What are they doing to en? Why are they holdin’ en? Dada!” he cried in a shrill scream. “Dada!” Amid all his frenzy, aye, even amid the din about him, John Reed distinguished the little voice, and suddenly became as a lamb. “’Tis him,” he cried brokenly. “’Tis Johnny! That’s him yonder,” and slipping from the loosened grasp of the hands which had been laid upon him, he staggered forward, paused, wavered, and then dropping to the ground burst into tears. Johnny, having been set on his legs, ran gleefully to his father, and flung his arms about his neck; and John fondled him with one big trembling hand, and sobbed on, his broad shoulders heaving, the tears trickling through the brown fingers with which he sought to hide his face. People who had been most ready to condemn him now gathered round, full of sympathy; even the policemen, fathers of families themselves, looked down with benign compassion. Only the van-proprietor stood aloof, indignantly surveying the tattered collar of his own rusty jacket, which seemed, indeed, to have recently sustained severe handling. “He was near the death o’ me, I know that,” he remarked. “He’d no need to come assaultin’ and a-batterin’ of me, if he had a-lost his child.” “He didn’t know what he was a-doin’,” returned a sympathetic bystander. “He’ve a-bin all night runnin’ after vans and sich, thinkin’ they’d a-carried off the little chap. Somebody went and told en there was a little kid wi’ yaller curls among your folks, and he made sure ’twas his, d’ye see?”