All about us were jostling throngs of men and women in snowy smock frocks, and holiday gowns, who pushed, or were pushed, laughed, or frowned, according to their several natures; while above the merry hubbub rose the blare of trumpets, the braying of horns, and the crash, and rattle of drums—­in a word, I was in the middle of an English Country Fair.

“Now then, young cove,” repeated the man I have alluded to, “where are you a-pushing of?  Don’t do it again, or mind your eye!” And, saying this, he glared balefully at me with one eye and leered jocosely with the other, and into my ribs came his elbow again.

“You seem to be able to do something in that way yourself,” I retorted.

“Oh—­do I?”

“Yes,” said I; “suppose you take your elbow out of my waistcoat.”

“‘Elber,’” repeated the man, “what d’ye mean by ’elber’?”

“This,” said I, catching his arm in no very gentle grip.

“If it’s a fight you’re wantin’—­” began the man.

“It isn’t!” said I.

“Then leggo my arm!”

“Then keep your elbow to yourself.”

“’Cod!  I never see such a hot-headed cove!”

“Nor I a more bad-tempered one.”

This altercation had taken place as we swayed to and fro in the crowd, from which we now slowly won free, owing chiefly to the dexterous use of the man’s bony elbows, until we presently found ourselves in a veritable jungle of carts and wagons of all kinds and sorts, where we stopped, facing each other.

“I’m inclined to think, young cove, as you’d be short-tempered if you been shied at by your feller-man from your youth up,” said the man.

“What do you mean by ’shied at’?”

“What I sez!—­some perfessions is easy, and some is ’ard—­like mine.”

“And what is yours?”

“I’m a perfessional Sambo.”

“A what?”

“Well—­a ‘Nigger-head’ then,—­blacks my face—­sticks my ’ead through a ’ole, and lets ’em shy at me—­three shies a penny—­them as ’its me gets a cigar—­a big ’un—­them as don’t—­don’t!”

“Yours is a very unpleasant profession,” said I.

“A man must live!”

“But,” said I, “supposing you get hit?”

“Them as ’its me gets a cigar!”

“Doesn’t it hurt you?”

“Oh! you gets used to it—­though, to be sure, they don’t ’it me very often, or it would be a loss; cigars is expensive—­leastways they costs money.”

“But surely a wooden image would serve your turn just as well.”

“A wooden image!” exclaimed the man disgustedly.  “James!—­you must be a fool, you must!  Who wants to throw at a wooden image —­you can’t ’urt a wooden image, can you—­if you throwed ’eavens ’ard at a wooden image that there wooden image wouldn’t flinch, would it?  When a man throws at anything ’e likes to ’it it —­that’s ’uman—­and when ’e ’its it ’e likes to see it flinch —­that’s ’uman too, and when it flinches, why—­’e rubs ’is ’ands, and takes another shot—­and that’s the ’umanest of all.  So you see, young cove, you’re a fool with your wooden image.”