Two men were seated in easy attitudes on the grass by the church—­two men of the class of itinerant showmen, exhibitors of the freaks of Punch—­and they had come there to make needful repairs in the stage arrangements, for one was engaged in binding together a small gallows with thread, while the other was fixing a new black wig upon the head of a puppet.

“Are you going to show ’em to-night?  Are you?” said the old man.

“That’s the intention, governor, and unless I’m much mistaken, my partner, Tommy Codlin, is a-calculating at this minute what we’ve lost through your coming upon us.  Cheer up, Tommy, it can’t be much.”

To this Mr. Codlin replied in a surly, grumbling manner, “I don’t care if we haven’t lost a farden, but you’re too free.  If you stood in front of the curtain, and see the public’s faces as I do, you’d know human natur’ better.”

“Ah! it’s been the spoiling of you, Tommy, your taking to that branch,” rejoined his companion.  “When you played the ghost in the reg’lar drama in the fairs, you believed in everything—­except ghosts.  But now you’re a universal mistruster.”

“Never mind,” said Mr. Codlin, with the air of a discontented philosopher; “I know better now; p’r’aps I’m sorry for it.  Look here, here’s all this Judy’s clothes falling to pieces again.”

The child, seeing they were at a loss for a needle and thread, timidly proposed to mend it for them, and even Mr. Codlin had nothing to urge against a proposal so reasonable.

“If you’re wanting a place to stop at,” said Short, “I should advise you to take up at the same house with us.  That’s it, the long, low, white house there.  It’s very cheap.”

The public-house was kept by a fat old landlord and landlady, who made no objection to receiving their new guests, but praised Nelly’s beauty, and were at once prepossessed in her behalf.

“We’re going on to the races,” said Short next morning to the travellers.  “If that’s your way, and you’d like to have us for company, let us go together.  If you prefer going alone, only say the word, and we shan’t trouble you.”

“We’ll go with you,” said the old man.  “Nell—­with them, with them.”

They stopped that night at an ancient roadside inn called the Jolly Sandboys, and supper being in preparation, Nelly and her grandfather had not long taken their seats by the kitchen fire before they fell asleep.

“Who are they?” whispered the landlord.

“No-good, I suppose,” said Mr. Codlin.

“They’re no harm,” said Short, “depend upon that.  It’s very plain, besides, that they’re not used to this way of life.  Don’t tell me that handsome child has been in the habit of prowling about as she’s done these last two or three days.  I know better.  The old man ain’t in his right mind.  Haven’t you noticed how anxious he is always to get on—­furder away—­furder away?  Mind what I say, he has given his friends the slip, and persuaded this delicate young creatur all along of her fondness for him to be his guide—­where to, he knows no more than the man in the moon.  I’m not a-going to stand that!”