WELLWYN. Poor old buffer!
FERRAND. Touching, is it not, Monsieur? There are many brave gents among the old cabbies—they have philosophy—that comes from 'orses, and from sitting still.
WELLWYN. [Touching TIMSON's shoulder.] Drenched!
FERRAND. That will do 'im no 'arm, Monsieur-no 'arm at all. He is well wet inside, remember—it is Christmas to-morrow. Put him a rug, if you will, he will soon steam.
[WELLWYN takes up ANN's long red cloak, and wraps it round the
old man.]
TIMSON. [Faintly roused.] Tha's right. Put—the rug on th' old 'orse.
[He makes a strange noise, and works his head and tongue.]
WELLWYN. [Alarmed.] What's the matter with him?
FERRAND. It is nothing, Monsieur; for the moment he thinks 'imself a 'orse. 'Il joue "cache-cache,"' 'ide and seek, with what you call— 'is bitt.
WELLWYN. But what's to be done with him? One can't turn him out in this state.