At the stroke of Noon the Mayor and her flunkies re-emerge from the Guildhall to (hopefully) greet the return of the Silver Ball.
There are a tense few moments when everyone anxiously scans the area for any sign of sprogs returning in triumph with the Silver Ball.....
..... er, there doesn't seem to be any sign of movement. Are you sure you've got the right time? I haven't heard the church clock strike. Bells must be waterlogged. Anybody know any good jokes? .....
..... Then, there is a shift in the crowd and a figure emerges. What a fiendishly cunning plan. In order to escape detection the gang of lads who ran off with the ball have disguised themselves as a small girl. No wonder the Hunt never caught them!
Hang on just a minute. That IS a small girl.
So, all's well that ends wet ..... or is it?
Realising that the day had not gone too well, it seemed that the Mayor had fallen into a deep despair. She had opened an upstairs office window and was trying to get out on the ledge!
What was going to happen next?
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