“I don’t know, it looks like a hump.”
“Driver, just turn into that lane and take the south road.—It’s a silo! By Jove! Old Hopkins is coming on, and look, all that waste moor under cultivation! I always said it would grow potatoes. Seemingly the place is not neglected. Hopkins was always a good fellow, but I had no idea until now he wasn’t also an ass. I dreamt frequently of that ensilage scheme, someone else has hatched out my dream for me. Oh Lord, here’s this shivering on me again! Where’s the draught?”
“In your breast-pocket.”
“Tell him to wait, I can’t get in like this, ‘there’s a decency to be observed!’”
The driver waited, revolving in his mind suppositions as to his remarkable fare, and wondering why “in the devil’s name” the trap shook as if it had the palsy.
After quite half an hour it stopped and he had orders to go on, while Strange mopped the cold sweat from his face with a trembling hand.
“This degrades a fellow!” he muttered. As a rule he pulled himself well together after these attacks, but this time he got no reaction.
When they reached the door he was almost unconscious.
“Take me quietly to my den,” he muttered, “don’t let the servants bother me.” Then he fainted dead off.