“Yes, to-morrow it will be juggle and tumble—­eat fire—­um—­and so on, as Mr Cophagus would have said; so good-night, Japhet.”

The next morning we arrayed ourselves in our new habiliments; mine were silk stockings, shoes, and white kerseymere kneed breeches, a blue silk waistcoat loaded with tinsel, and a short jacket to correspond of blue velvet, a sash round my waist, a hat and a plume of feathers.  Timothy declared I looked very handsome, and as the glass said the same as plain as it could speak, I believed him.  Timothy’s dress was a pair of wide Turkish trousers and red jacket, with spangles.  The others were much the same.  Fleta was attired in small, white satin, Turkish trousers, blue muslin and silver embroidered frock, worked sandals, and her hair braided and plaited in long tails behind, and she looked like a little sylph.  Melchior’s dress was precisely the same as mine, and a more respectable company was seldom seen.  Some musicians had been hired, and handbills were now circulated all over the town, stating that Signor Eugenio Velotti, with his company, would have the honour of performing before the nobility and gentry.  The bill contained the fare which was to be provided, and intimated the hour of the performance, and the prices to be paid for the seats.  The performance was to take place in a very large room attached to the inn, which, previous to the decadence of the town, had been used as an assembly-room.  A platform was erected on the outside, on which were placed the musicians, and where we all occasionally made our appearance in our splendid dresses to attract the wonder of the people.  There we strutted up and down, all but poor little Fleta, who appeared to shrink at the display from intuitive modesty.  When the music ceased, a smart parley between Melchior and me, and Philotas, and Timothy, as the two fools, would take place; and Melchior declared, after the performance was over, that we conducted ourselves to admiration.

“Pray, Mr Philotas, do me the favour to tell me how many people you think are now present?” said Melchior to Num, in an imperative voice.

“I don’t know,” said Num, looking up with his idiotical, melancholy face.

“Ha! ha! ha’” roared the crowd at Num’s stupid answer.

“The fellow’s a fool’” said Melchior, to the gaping audience.

“Well, then, if he can’t tell, perhaps you may, Mr Dionysius,” said I, addressing Tim.

“How many, sir?  Do you want to know exactly and directly?”

“Yes, sir, immediately.”

“Without counting, sir?”

“Yes, sir, without counting.”

“Well then, sir, I will tell, and make no mistake; there’s exactly as many again as half.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” from the crowd.

“That won’t do, sir.  How many may be the half?”

“How many may be the half?  Do you know yourself, sir?”

“Yes, sir, to be sure I do.”

“Then there’s no occasion for me to tell you.”