e booth,
he climbed up, and with a great air of busy efficiency began to tie the
Union Jack to the top of one of the tent-poles. Through the crannies in
the canvas he could see almost the whole of the interior of the tent.
Mr. Scogan's bandana-covered head was just below him; his terrifying
whispers came clearly up. Denis looked and listened while the witch
prophesied financial losses, death by apoplexy, destruction by air-raids
in the next war.

"Is there going to be another war?" asked the old lady to whom he had
predicted this end.

"Very soon," said Mr. Scogan, with an air of quiet confidence.

The old lady was succeeded by a girl dressed in white muslin, garnished
with pink ribbons. She was wearing a broad hat, so that Denis could not
see her face; but from her figure and the roundness of her bare arms
he judged her young and pleasing. Mr. Scogan looked at her hand, then
whispered, "You are still virtuous."

The young lady giggled and exclaimed, "Oh, lor'!"

"But you will not remain so for long," added Mr. Scogan sepulchrally.
The young lady giggled again. "Destiny, which interests itself in small
things no less than in great, has announced the fact upon your hand."
Mr. Scogan took up the magnifying-glass and began once more to examine
the white palm. "Very interesting," he said, as though to himself--"very
interesting. It's as clear as day." He was silent.

"What's clear?" asked the girl.

"I don't think I ought to tell you." Mr. Scogan shook his head; the
pendulous brass ear-rings which he had screwed on to his ears tinkled.

"Please, please!" she implored.

The witch seemed to ignore her remark. "Afterwards, it's not at all
clear. The fates don't say whether you will settle down to married life
and have four children or whether you will try to go on the cinema
and have none. They are only specific about this one rather crucial
incident."

"What is it? What is it? Oh, do tell me!"

The white muslin figure leant eagerly forward.

Mr. Scogan sighed. "Very well," he said, "if you must know, you
must know. But if anything untoward happens you must blame your
own curiosity. Listen. Listen." He lifted up a sharp, claw-nailed
forefinger. "This is what the fates have written. Next Sunday afternoon
at six o'clock you will be sitting on the second stile on the footpath
that leads from the church to the lower road. At that moment a man will
appear walking along the footpath." Mr. Scogan looked at her hand aga