“Widow?”

“I don’t know why you should suppose it.”

“No,” said Tilda after musing a moment; “there ain’t no real reason, o’ course.  On’y I thought—­An’ you not mentionin’ a nusband, under the circumstances.”

To her astonishment, Mrs. Lobb gave way and shook with mountainous sobs.

“I’m a maiden lady,” she confessed, “and I’ll conceal it no longer, when, God knows, I may be lyin’ here punished for my vanity. . . .  But ’twasn’t all vanity, neither:  it sounded more comfortable.  If it had been vanity, I’d ha’ chosen Montmorency or St. Clair—­not Lobb.  Wouldn’t I now? . . .  Of course, you won’t understand, at your age; but there’s a sort of sheltered feelin’.  An’ I’m a bundle of nerves.  You should see me,” wound up Mrs. Lobb enigmatically, “with a mouse.”

But at this moment Tilda whispered “’Ush!” Someone was stealthily lifting the vallance.  “Is that you, Sam?” she challenged.

“Aye, aye, missie.  All safe?”

“And snug. . . .  Can yer risk striking a match?  Fact is, we got a lady friend ‘ere, an’ she wants yer ’elp badly.”

Sam struck a sulphur match.

“Good Lord!” he breathed, staring across the blue flame, and still as he stared his eyes grew larger and rounder.

“’Er name’s Lobb,” explained Tilda.  “I oughter a-told yer.”

“’Ow did it ’appen?” asked Sam in an awed voice.

“Igsplosion,” said the Fat Lady.

“Is—­is there goin’ to be one?”

The match burned low in Sam’s trembling fingers, and he dropped it with an exclamation of pain.

“There was one,” said the Fat Lady.  “At Gavel’s roundabouts.  Leastways, the folks came chargin’ into my tent, which is next door, cryin’ out that the boiler was blowin’ up.  I travel with Gavel, sir—­as his Fat Lady—­”

“Oh!” Sam drew a long breath.

“Which, when I heard it, sir, and the outcries, I burst out through the back of the tent—­bein’ a timorous woman—­and ran for shelter.  My fright, sir, I’ll leave you to imagine.  And then, as I crawled under the boards here, a dog flew at me—­and bein’ taken unawares—­on all fours, too—­I rolled over with my legs twisted—­and here I am stuck.  There’s one joist pinnin’ my left shoulder, and my leg’s jammed under another; and stir I cannot.”

Sam lit another match.

“I was fearin’—­” he began, but broke off.  “If you could manage, ma’am, to draw up your knee an inch or so—­or if you wouldn’ mind my takin’ a pull—­”

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Lobb.  “I’m used to bein’ pinched.”

Sam gripped the knee-pan firmly, and hauled.

“O-ow!” cried Mrs. Lobb.  But the wrench had set her free to uncross her legs, and she did so, murmuring her gratitude.