“Professional usage, my boy—­professional usage!” explained the celebrated entrepreneur when Matty Cann drew attention to the discrepancy.  “It’s always done in the theatrical business.  Bless you, you don’t think we pay our Sarah Bernhardts, and our Cinquevallis, and our Paderewskis and our Peggy Prydes those enormous salaries that get into the papers.  No; no, we couldn’t do it, but we are content to let it be thought we do.  It impresses our public, Bonypart—­it impresses our public, my boy.”

Madame Marve produced bread, butter, pannikins, and the familiar necessities, brought forward the usual boiled leg of mutton on a lordly dish, large, fat and steaming like a laundry.

“Encore, encore!” cried the Professor.

“Hear, hear!” applauded Nickie, clapping vigorously.  Matty Cann even ventured an expression of appreciation.

Madame Marve placed the mutton for the carver, and bowed low to the right and left, picked up an imaginary bouquet, and threw three kisses to hypothetical “gods.”

“Come, come, Bony,” she said, patting the Living Skeleton on the back, “buck up, man.  If my old man couldn’t think of me for ten minutes without snivelling, I’d have a divorce.”

Matty Cann smiled wanly.  He had no great cause to “buck up,” his share of the boiled leg would be very small indeed and entirely knuckle, the Professor holding that the knuckle end was not fat-producing.

“It’s Jane’s birthday this day week, an’ little Mat’ll be two year old the day after.  I was wonderin’ if I could get a day off t’ visit me fam’ly?” said Matty.

“And fat up over-eating yourself,” said Thunder.  “Not much, my boy!”

Matty groaned.  “I give you me word I’d eat nothin’ but ship’s biscuit,” he pleaded.

“Poor old Bony,” said the Egyptian Mystic.  “It’s a pity your missus ain’t a bit of a freak, so as we could have her along.  Now, if she could eat fire we might find a place for her.  Fire-eaters are very popular.  I suppose she couldn’t learn to eat fire, Bony?”

The Living Skeleton shook his head gloomily over his poor meal.  “I’m afraid she couldn’t,” he said.  “Jane ain’t got any gifts.”

The meal was finished, and the utensils were washed and restored to the caravan cupboard, a zinc-lined packing case.  Professor Thunder was down on his back on the crisp grass again, smoking.  He was feeling good, and opened his heart.

“We’ll top off with a touch of old Jamaica, Nickie, my boy,” he said.  “There’s a bottle in the box-seat.  You might lead her out.”

Nickie needed no second invitation.  He sprang up with unaccustomed alacrity, and passed out of the circle of light into the bush darkness.  He found the bottle in the locker under the driving seat, and stepping down from the vehicle turned again towards the fire.  The extraordinary change in the peaceful scene he had just left flashed upon him with the vividness of a tableau in melodrama The gifted members of Professor