sh, to whom the Fair was a cause of recurrent and
never-diminishing agony, from putting a stop to the nuisance which
yearly desecrated his park and garden.

"I've made all the arrangements already," Henry Wimbush went on. "Some
of the larger marquees will be put up to-morrow. The swings and the
merry-go-round arrive on Sunday."

"So there's no escape," said Anne, turning to the rest of the party.
"You'll all have to do something. As a special favour you're allowed
to choose your slavery. My job is the tea tent, as usual, Aunt
Priscilla..."

"My dear," said Mrs. Wimbush, interrupting her, "I have more important
things to think about than the Fair. But you need have no doubt that I
shall do my best when Monday comes to encourage the villagers."

"That's splendid," said Anne. "Aunt Priscilla will encourage the
villagers. What will you do, Mary?"

"I won't do anything where I have to stand by and watch other people
eat."

"Then you'll look after the children's sports."

"All right," Mary agreed. "I'll look after the children's sports."

"And Mr. Scogan?"

Mr. Scogan reflected. "May I be allowed to tell fortunes?" he asked at
last. "I think I should be good at telling fortunes."

"But you can't tell fortunes in that costume!"

"Can't I?" Mr. Scogan surveyed himself.

"You'll have to be dressed up. Do you still persist?"

"I'm ready to suffer all indignities."

"Good!" said Anne; and turning to Gombauld, "You must be our lightning
artist," she said. "'Your portrait for a shilling in five minutes.'"

"It's a pity I'm not Ivor," said Gombauld, with a laugh. "I could throw
in a picture of their Auras for an extra sixpence."

Mary flushed. "Nothing is to be gained," she said severely, "by speaking
with levity of serious subjects. And, after all, whatever your personal
views may be, psychical research is a perfectly serious subject."

"And what about Denis?"

Denis made a deprecating gesture. "I have no accomplishments," he said,
"I'll just be one of those men who wear a thing in their buttonholes and
go about telling people which is the way to tea and not to walk on the
grass."

"No, no," said Anne. "That won't do. You must do something more than
that."

"But what? All the good jobs are taken, and I can do nothing but lisp in
numbers."

"Well, then, you must lisp," concluded Anne. "You must write a poem for
the occasion--an 'Ode on Bank Holiday.' We'll print it on Uncle Henry's
press and sell it at two