As we passed the police station and my hotel—towards which I cast longing glances, for it was not far off dinner time—I asked a question of the tall, fresh-coloured man.
"I understood that you were going to take me to the police station?" I said.
The man shook his head.
"We are taking you to the prison," he said, "for the night. You will be brought before the magistrates in the morning."
I sank back in the corner of the fly thoroughly dejected, and the vehicle drove out by what I knew to be the Warminster Road. We now left the lights of the town behind, and then the journey was entirely between two hedgerows, which bordered the road, with an occasional field gate by way of variety—all else beyond was blank night, for there was no moon.
My two guardians began to show signs of fatigue, not unmixed with a certain disgust, at the length of the journey.
They began yawning and stretching their arms, with very little regard for my comfort.
When at last the fly pulled up with a jerk, after a good deal of bumping over a rough road, the two men were very unceremonious in ordering me to quit the vehicle.
"Now then, Ugly," remarked the fresh-coloured man with a push of his foot, which was remarkably like a kick, "out you get!"
He stepped out himself and I followed, knowing full well it was useless to resist, but I made a mental resolve that I would report him.