When it had been gathered in to the last farthing, he resumed his load and on they went again.
Sometimes they played out the toll across a bridge or ferry, and once exhibited by particular desire at a turnpike, where the collector, being drunk in his solitude, paid down a shilling to have it to himself.

There was one small place of rich promise in which their hopes were blighted, for a favourite character in the play having gold-lace upon his coat and being a meddling wooden-headed fellow was held to be a libel on the beadle, for which reason the authorities enforced a quick retreat; but they were generally well received, and seldom left a town without a troop of ragged children shouting at their heels.
They made a long day's journey, despite these interruptions, and were yet upon the road when the moon was shining in the sky.

Short beguiled the time with songs and jests, and made the best of everything that happened.

Mr Codlin on the other hand, cursed his fate, and all the hollow things of earth (but Punch especially), and limped along with the theatre on his back, a prey to the bitterest chagrin.
They had stopped to rest beneath a finger-post where four roads met, and Mr Codlin in his deep misanthropy had let down the drapery and seated himself in the bottom of the show, invisible to mortal eyes and disdainful of the company of his fellow creatures, when two monstrous shadows were seen stalking towards them from a turning in the road by which they had come.

The child was at first quite terrified by the sight of these gaunt giants--for such they looked as they advanced with lofty strides beneath the shadow of the trees--but Short, telling her there was nothing to fear, blew a blast upon the trumpet, which was answered by a cheerful shout.
'It's Grinder's lot, an't it ?' cried Mr Short in a loud key.
'Yes,' replied a couple of shrill voices.
'Come on then,' said Short.