There were no fawns. There was an increasing noise Through which he heard the lugubrious voice of Bailey Singing off-key, like a hymn, “When I was a weaver, I lived by myself, And I worked at the weaver’s tra-a-de⁠—”

The officers were barking like foxes now.

As the last tent dropped behind them, Ellyat saw A red, puzzled face, looking out from under a tent-flap, Like a bear from a cave. The face had been drunk last night, And it stared at the end of the column with a huge and stupid wisdom.

“When I was a weaver, I lived by myself, And I worked at the weaver’s trade⁠—”