were two hand instruments worked by a youth in shirt sleeves behind
the scenes so energetically that the High Road and the painted
London blew backwards and forwards in sympathy with his movements.
Jeremy, happily, was not so worldly wise as his uncle. This scene
created for him then a tradition of imperishable beauty that would
never fade again. The world after that night would be a more magical
place than it had ever been before. "Turn again, Whittington"
continued the education that the Toy Village and Hamlet had already
advanced.

When the gas rose once again, sizzling like crackling bacon, he was
white with excitement. The only remark that he made was: "It's much
better than the pictures outside Martin's, isn't it, Uncle Samuel?"
to which Uncle Samuel, who had been railing for weeks at the
deflowering of Polchester by those abominable posters, could
truthfully reply, "Much better." Little by little he withdrew
himself from the other world and realised his own. He could see that
he and his uncle were certainly not amongst the Quality. Large
ladies, their dresses tucked up over their knees, sucked oranges.
Country farmers with huge knobbly looking sticks were there, and
even some sailors, on their way probably to Drymouth. He recognised
the lady who kept charge of the small Orange Street post-office, and
waved to her with delighted excitement. The atmosphere was thick
with gas and oranges, and I'm afraid that Uncle Samuel must have
suffered a great deal. I can only put it on record that he, the most
selfish of human beings, never breathed a word of complaint.

They were all packed very closely together up there in the gallery,
where seventy years before an orchestra straight from Jane Austen's
novels had played to the dancing of the contemporaries of Elizabeth