It was a man whom Abner had sometimes met at Llandwlas station when he was driving the milk from The Dyke.
‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ he said. ‘Want a lift?’ Abner caught him up and climbed into the seat next his.
They set off again, whirling like a tornado through the darkness. They could only speak to each other by shouting, for the engine was old and full of rattles, and the milk-pails jangled behind.
‘Drop you Lesswardine Bridge?’ the driver shouted.
‘Drop me in hell if you like,’ Abner replied.
‘What about Shrewsbury to be going on with?’
‘That’ll do me!’
The roar and vibration filled Abner’s aching brain. They turned northward at Craven Arms and plunged on between the rising masses of the Mynd and Caer Caradoc. The hotels of Church Stretton burned like a constellation in the darkness on their left. The lights of Shrewsbury appeared.
‘That’s good going, bain’t it?’ said the driver, with a laugh.
He refused the drink that Abner offered him and set him down in the outskirts of the city. Abner’s head was splitting. He staggered into a pub and drank three double whiskies straight off. What was there for a man to do but drink?