True Tilda Part 29

"But there ain't _been_ no explosh'n. And anyway," said Tilda, "you ain't tellin' me you been _blown_ 'ere?"

"Igsplosion or no igsplosion," replied the Fat Lady incontestably, "'ere I h'am."

"_Sure_ yer can't move?" Tilda coaxed.

At this the Fat Lady showed some irritation.

"I ought to know what I'm capable of by this time. . . . If you could run along and fetch somebody with a tackle and pulley now--"

"I got a friend comin' presently. 'E's quite a 'andy young feller, _an'_ tender-'earted: 'e won't leave yer like this, no fear. . . . But, o' course, it'll be a shock to 'im, 'appenin' in upon us an' findin'-- well, so much _more_'n 'e expected. I'm thinkin' 'ow to break it to 'im gently, 'ere in the dark." Tilda considered for a while. "It might 'elp if I knew yer name. 'Twouldn' be fair--would it?--to start off that we'd got a surprise for 'im, an' would 'e guess?"

"He'll find out, fast enough, when he strikes a light," said the Fat Lady between resigned despair and professional pride. "But my name's Mrs. Lobb, when you introjuice him."

"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 circ.u.mstances."

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, G.o.d 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 grat.i.tude.

There had been (Sam now explained) a false alarm. In the midst of the merry-making, and while the roundabouts were crowded and going at full speed, the boy in charge of the engine had taken occasion to announce to the lady at the pay-table that his pressure was a hundred-and-forty-seven, and what had taken the safety valve he couldn't think. Whereupon the lady at the pay-table had started up, scattering her coins, and shrieked; and this had started the stampede. "Which,"

added Sam in a whisper to Tilda, "was lucky for us in a way; becos Gla.s.son, after tacklin' Mortimer be'ind the scenes an' threatenin' to have his blood in a bottle, had started off with Gavel to fetch the perlice. An' the question is if they won't be watchin' the gates by this time."

"In _my_ young days," announced the Fat Lady, with disconcerting suddenness, "it was thought rude to whisper."

Tilda took a swift resolution.

"The truth is, ma'am, we're in trouble, an' 'idin' 'ere. I wouldn' dare to tell yer, on'y they say that people o' your--I mean, in your--"

"Profession," suggested the Fat Lady.

"--Are kind-'earted by nature. I belongs, ma'am--leastways, I _did_,-- to Maggs's Circus--if you know it--"

"I've heard Maggs's troupe very well spoken of. But, as you'll understand, I do very little visitin'."

"I was 'appy enough with Maggs's, ma'am. But first of all a pony laid me up with a kick, an' then I stole Arthur Miles 'ere out of the 'Oly Innercents--"

Tilda broke down for a moment, recovered herself, and with sobs told her story.

For a while, after she had ended it, the Fat Lady kept silence. Sam, breathing hard, still doubtful of the child's bold policy, feared what this silence might portend.

"Give me your hand, young man," said the Fat Lady at length.

Sam reached out in the darkness, and grasped hers fervently.

"I didn't ask you to shake it. I want to be helped out to the fresh air, and then these children'll march straight home with me to my caravan."

"But," stammered Sam, not yet clear that he had found an ally, "--but that's leadin' 'em straight into Gavel's arms!"

"Young man," replied the lady austerely, "it leads into no man's arms."

But a moment later she dropped her voice, and added with a touch of pathos, "I'm the loneliest woman in the world, outside of show hours; and if you thought a little you might know it."

"I see," said Sam contritely.