The two days that followed their arrival seemed to Derrick to be a
succession of hours born of delirium and nurtured by frenzy. Mr.
Bloxford, still in his preposterous fur coat, was everywhere at once,
and waving his hands as usual; Derrick, who had begun by shouting, soon
became hoarse, and discovered why it was that Mr. Bloxford relied, on
such occasions, entirely on gesture.

Derrick followed his example as well as he could, and by dint of
expressive pantomime, and sometimes forcible persuasion with a fist
which had acquired an astonishing readiness, got the motley crew of
quadrupeds and bipeds on dry land, formed up his column, marched it to
the spot outside the handsome city, and then sank on an upturned box,
wiping his brows, and wondering, while he watched the experienced
baggage hands deftly erect the monster tent, whether he should ever get
his voice back.

It was summer in England, but it was like winter here, a bland and mild
winter, with, fortunately for Bloxford's circus, no rain--at any rate,
at present--and all through the day the scene had been lit up by a
brilliant sun which, shining through a singularly clear atmosphere,
seemed to destroy distance and to bestow sharp outlines on every object.
There was something exhilarating in the air, and the bustle and
excitement, and Derrick, having rested, went to his canvas quarters
feeling his blood stir within him, and his past life stretching away
behind him as if it had belonged to another man.