“Thank you, sir,” said the lady, with some confusion.  Then she walked rapidly down the road toward the village, like one who lived there.

“A customer for the panorama, perhaps,” said Tiffles.  “I’m glad you landed her safely.”  Tiffles had got through his thinking, and was exhilarate again.  He laughed so pleasantly, that even Marcus relaxed his grim visage, and smiled.

“Not a bad ankle, that,” observed Patching, looking at the rapidly retreating form of the rescued woman.  Patching, artist-like, was always discovering beauties where nobody else looked for them.

Marcus had no eye for the charms of nature that morning, and he responded not to the remark which the artist had addressed to him.  Whereupon Patching determined not to speak to Marcus again that day.

They followed the mysterious female down the road which led to the village.  On the fences, every few rods, were plastered posters announcing the “Panorama of Africa” for that evening, at “Washington Hall”—­“Tickets, twenty-five cents”—­“Children under twelve years of age, half price,” &c., &c.  As B. Persimmon, P.M., had said, in one of his letters, some of the posters were stuck upside down.  This circumstance did not seem to prevent the population from reading them; for the party observed at least two boys (half prices) in the act of spelling them out between their legs.

Tiffles was so absorbed in the contemplation of the posters, Patching in a critical survey of the scenery on both sides of the road, and Marcus Wilkeson in an introspection of his troubled heart, that none of them observed how often the thin, nervous female, walking rapidly ahead, looked over her shoulder at one of their number.

CHAPTER III.

PIGWORTH, J.P.

The village was composed of the usual ingredients, in the usual proportions.  Law, drygoods, liquor, blacksmithing, carpentry, education, painting and glazing, medicine, dentistry, tinware, and other comforts of civilization, were all to be had on reasonable terms.  There were four churches with rival steeples, and two taverns with rival signs.  The village contained everything that any reasonable man could ask for, except a barber’s shop.  It takes a good-sized town to support a barber’s shop.

As they marched into the village, they were conscious of attracting general attention.  Men looked out of the doors, women out of the windows, and boys had begun to fall in procession behind.

“Them are the performers,” said one boy to another “Wonder what that feller with the big hat does?” observed a second.  “Turns the crank, guess,” was the response.

Patching pulled his hat farther over his eyes, and smiled gloomily at Tiffles, “They little think who I am,” he murmured.

“What a solemncholy mug that tall chap’s got,” said another youthful citizen.  This made Marcus try to laugh genially at the boys.  But in vain.