And now he saw them ride round the stage on tricycles, with grotesque ruffles round their necks and clown caps on their heads, their eyes blinking miserably in the blaze of the footlights.

In response to the applause of the house a stout, atrociously smiling man in evening dress came forward and bowed; he had had nothing to do either with the capture or the training of the animals, having bought them ready for use from a continental emporium where wild beasts were prepared for the music-hall market, but he continued bowing and smiling till the curtain fell.
Two American musicians with comic tendencies (denoted by the elaborate rags and tatters of their costumes) succeeded the wolves.

Their musical performance was not without merit, but their comic "business" seemed to have been invented long ago by some man who had patented a monopoly of all music-hall humour and forthwith retired from the trade.

Some day, Yeovil reflected, the rights of the monopoly might expire and new "business" become available for the knockabout profession.
The audience brightened considerably when item number five of the programme was signalled.

The orchestra struck up a rollicking measure and Tony Luton made his entrance amid a rousing storm of applause.