rom under her, spread them
carefully over the sleeping Kennicott, patting them down affectionately.

The next day she learned what the medicine show was like. She also
learned what was the matter with the pilgrims.

III

Morning.

A fog horn.

A fog horn blowing unceasingly.

At breakfast Kennicott pointed with his fork in the direction of the
persistent sound.

"There's your Smart Set medicine show," he said glumly. "He doesn't seem
to care much whether we give him a permit or not." Then, a minute later,
"We'll have to let him stay. Won't do to have the Indians down on us.
But I tell you this, Priscilla, I don't want you to go."

"But Will--"

"Prissie, please! I'm sorry I said what I did last night. I was tired.
But don't you see, well, I can't just exactly explain--but this fog horn
sort of scares me--I don't like it--"

He suddenly rose and put both hands on her shoulders. He looked into her
eyes. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. He picked up his
hat and was gone. It was five minutes before Priscilla noticed that his
breakfast had been left untouched.

A fog horn, sounding unceasingly.

She listlessly put away the breakfast dishes. She tried to drown out
the sound by singing hymns. She fell on her knees and tried to pray. She
found her prayers keeping time to the rise and fall of the notes of that
horn. She determined to go out in the air--to find her husband--to go to
church, anywhere--as far as possible from the Smart Set medicine show.

So she went out the back door and ran as fast as she could toward the
place from which came the sound of the fog horn.

IV

An open space on the edge of the forest.

In the centre of the clearing a small gaudily-painted tent.

Seated on the ground in a semicircle before the tent, some forty or
fifty Indians.

Standing on a box before the entrance to the tent, a man of twenty-five
or fifty.

In his left hand he holds a fog horn; in his right, a stein of beer.

He puts the horn to his lips and blows heavy blast.

He bellows, "Beauty--Beauty--Beauty!"

He takes a drink of beer.

He repeats this performance nine times.

He takes up some mud and deftly models the features of several
well-known characters--statesmen, writers, critics. In many cases
the resemblance is so slight that Priscilla can hardly recognize the
character.

He picks up a heavy club and proceeds to beat each one of his modeled
figures into a pulp.

The Indians applau