Volume VII - Modernist Magazines Project

By Hubert Crackanthorpe 245Tuesday^ 2.30 a.m.—The rain was rattling against the sides ofthe tent. Joe and "Scottie" were moving the elephants out.Tim was trumpeting at the top of his voice, and trying to dragthe tent down about our ears.The whole camp seemed a scene of hopeless, indescribable confusion.The men were all shouting to one another in the darkness.Every gust of the gale was extinguishing the petroleumlights. I wandered about in search of Jim, stumbling over thetent-ropes, splashing into pools of standing water, jostling againsthuddled groups of men vainly endeavouring to rekindle theirlights. It was rumoured that half the show had already started,and that the " boss" had been knocked on the head by a fallingtent-pole. The rain was falling in torrents. I caught a glimpse ofthe ladies scurrying under their umbrellas to their omnibus, old SamGiddens among them, wrapped in a multitude of horse-blankets.It was half-an-hour before I found the buggy, and could hearJim's voice bellowing close at hand.One of the leaders of the last tableau team lay kicking pn theground, entangled in his traces. Jim was cursing the driver as hehad never cursed before. We all lent a hand. I sat on the horse'shead, while the others worked at the straps. Of a sudden thelight went out. The horse started plunging : I was pitched intoa pool of water ; and when we could see again the animal hadkicked himself clear.We were the last to leave. Drenched to the skin, with thebuggy-hood down, despite the rain, lest the wind should overturnus, we crawled up the hill on to the cliffs. The trees were allwrithing in the gale ; below us, with a dull, continuous roar, thesurf was crashing against the rocks. Jim had been drinkingheavily ; before we had gone half-a-mile, he was rolling in hissleep. The light behind the buggy was the only one still alight.At