C'est à chier, he thought, eh, grand-père? Thrusting his cold hands in his coat, he strode away from the fire. Callie and her beau were strolling along the opposite pavement, pausing now and then to observe some exhibitor's cheese or pies. Trev shadowed them, jerking his chin to one of his boys. The big boxer stood up and fell in with him casually, passing the signal on. In a moment, there were a dozen of them, spread across the street and among the exhibits, ready for trouble.

Trev was in the mood for it. He wished it were all done with, over now, this juvenile adventure, so he could get on with the vast sum of nothing that was his life stretching before him. Italy, he thought, but no, that wasn't far enough. He needed an ocean between them if she was going to marry Sturgeon. Boston, perhaps, where he could get himself a tomahawk and live with the rest of the savages, busting up tea crates for entertainment.

Across the way, the happy couple stopped at the pen with the obese pig. Trev halted. He felt his reason slipping. Sturgeon made some remark and pointed at the animal, and Callie laughed and shook her head.

Something cracked, some final thin sliver of sanity. Absurdly, all he could think was that it was his pig, his and Callie's, and Sturgeon had made her laugh. He stood still for a moment, suffused with rage. She looked up then and saw him. Across the width of the street full of geese and chicken crates, he stared at her, breathing through the woolen scarf concealing his face.

She gazed back as if she were transfixed. Trev narrowed his eyes, expressing his opinion of this betrayal. She lost all her color, leaving only two bright spots burning on her cheeks in the cold. Her hand went out and found Sturgeon's arm for support.

Trev realized then that he must be a figure of more than ordinary menace in his mask. He turned abruptly away, prowling along the street. She liked adventure. He would give it to her. The fair had begun to attract more people now, as the shadows of early morning retreated and the sun took off the worst of the frost. He moved near the tarps that concealed Hubert's pen.

"Untie the bull," he muttered. "Get him on his feet."

Charles poked his head from inside the canvas. "Aye, sir." He pulled back and vanished.

Trev moved away as the tarps began to sway and tremble. He gave a low instruction to one of his boys.

"Eh?" Bristol's finest hope for the next Champion of the Noble Art rolled a startled eye toward him.

"Do it," Trev said. "And man the fires—keep 'em clear when it starts."

"Oh, there's the dandy," his cohort said with under stated violence. "Mind we don't burn down the town."

"Aye, mind it," Trev said, giving him a clap on the shoulder to send him off.