A number of people had heroically gathered in the field but by three o’clock Henchard discerned that his project was doomed to end in failure.  The hams at the top of the poles dripped watered smoke in the form of a brown liquor, the pig shivered in the wind, the grain of the deal tables showed through the sticking tablecloths, for the awning allowed the rain to drift under at its will, and to enclose the sides at this hour seemed a useless undertaking.  The landscape over the river disappeared; the wind played on the tent-cords in aeolian improvisations, and at length rose to such a pitch that the whole erection slanted to the ground those who had taken shelter within it having to crawl out on their hands and knees.

But towards six the storm abated, and a drier breeze shook the moisture from the grass bents.  It seemed possible to carry out the programme after all.  The awning was set up again; the band was called out from its shelter, and ordered to begin, and where the tables had stood a place was cleared for dancing.

“But where are the folk?” said Henchard, after the lapse of half-an-hour, during which time only two men and a woman had stood up to dance.  “The shops are all shut.  Why don’t they come?”

“They are at Farfrae’s affair in the West Walk,” answered a Councilman who stood in the field with the Mayor.

“A few, I suppose.  But where are the body o ’em?”

“All out of doors are there.”

“Then the more fools they!”

Henchard walked away moodily.  One or two young fellows gallantly came to climb the poles, to save the hams from being wasted; but as there were no spectators, and the whole scene presented the most melancholy appearance Henchard gave orders that the proceedings were to be suspended, and the entertainment closed, the food to be distributed among the poor people of the town.  In a short time nothing was left in the field but a few hurdles, the tents, and the poles.

Henchard returned to his house, had tea with his wife and daughter, and then walked out.  It was now dusk.  He soon saw that the tendency of all promenaders was towards a particular spot in the Walks, and eventually proceeded thither himself.  The notes of a stringed band came from the enclosure that Farfrae had erected—­the pavilion as he called it—­and when the Mayor reached it he perceived that a gigantic tent had been ingeniously constructed without poles or ropes.  The densest point of the avenue of sycamores had been selected, where the boughs made a closely interlaced vault overhead; to these boughs the canvas had been hung, and a barrel roof was the result.  The end towards the wind was enclosed, the other end was open.  Henchard went round and saw the interior.