"
"Isn't--isn't this the Pantomime?" Taffy stammered.
George giggled. Sir Harry set down his glass of claret, stared at
the boy, and broke into musical laughter. Taffy perceived he had
made some ridiculous mistake and blushed furiously.
"God bless the child--the Pantomime's at the theatre!"
"Oh!" Taffy recalled the canvas booth and wheezy cornet of his early
days with a chill of disappointment.
But with George at his side it was impossible to be anything but
happy. After lunch they sallied out, and it would have been hard to
choose the gayest of the three. Sir Harry's radiant good-temper
seemed to gild the streets. He took the boys up to the Hoe and
pointed out the war-ships; he whisked them into the Camera Obscura;
thence to the Citadel, where they watched a squad of recruits at
drill; thence to the Barbican, where the trawling-fleet lay packed
like herring, and the shops were full of rope and oilskin suits and
marine instruments, and dirty children rolled about the roadway
between the legs of seabooted fishermen; and so up to the town again,
where he lingered in the most obliging manner while the boys stared
into the fishing-tackle shops and toy shops. On the way he led them
up a narrow passage and into a curious room, where fifteen or twenty
men were drinking, and talking at the top of their voices. The most
of them seemed to know Sir Harry well and greeted him with an odd
mixture of respect and familiarity.
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