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Updated: May 25, 2025
"When do you open?" inquired an intelligent spectator, anxious to show savoir faire. "See small handbills," replied the host-in-himself, with equal courtesy. "'Oo are yer, at any rate?" inquired an enlightened voter. "Who are YOU?" we replied with spirit; and, passing through the gate, we closed it to keep out the draught. Then we paid a domiciliary visit, and were duly shown Parker's apartments.
We craned our necks, and, stooping low, saw beneath the vehicle a parasitic square box like a huge barnacle fixed to the bottom of the van. A box about four feet by two. The door of it was open, and Parker's bedfellows two iron buckets and a sack of potatoes stood confessed. "Oh yes very nice," we murmured. "Oh, it's awfully jolly!" said the host-in-himself.
We look back with pleasure to the quiet camp in a gravel-pit on a hill-top far from the haunts of men to the pitching of the tent by moonlight in a meadow where the mushrooms gleamed like snow, to be duly gathered for the frying-pan next morning by the host-in-himself, and in pyjamas.
This was safely accomplished, by Parker, while we walked round, looked knowingly at the wheels, sternly at the gate-posts, and covertly at the spectators. Then we clambered up, the host-in-himself cracked the whip, Parker gathered up his reins. "Come up, Squire! Come up, Nancy!" And the joy of the caravaneer was ours. This joy is not like the joy of other men.
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