The vicar of Morwenstow had, some years ago, a servant, whom we will call Stanlake: the man may be still alive, and therefore his real name had better not be given to the world.
One day Mr. Hawker ordered his carriage to drive to Bideford, some twenty miles distant. The weather was raw and cold. He was likely to be absent all day, as he was going on to Barnstaple by train to consult his doctor. His compassion was roused by the thought of Stanlake having forty miles of drive in the cold, and a day of lounging about in the raw December air; and just as he stepped into the carriage he produced a bottle of whisky, and gave it to Stanlake.
Mr. Hawker was himself a most abstemious man: he drank only water, and never touched wine, spirits, or beer.
On the way to Bideford, at Hoops, thinking the coachman looked blue with cold, the vicar ordered him a glass of hot brandy and water. When he reached Bideford station he said: “Now, Stanlake, I shall be back by the half-past four train: mind you meet me with the carriage.”
“All right, sir.”
But Mr. Hawker did not arrive by the half-past four train.
Up till that hour Stanlake had kept sober, he had not touched his bottle of whisky; but finding that his master did not arrive, and that time hung heavily on his hands, he retired to the stable, uncorked the bottle, and drank it off.
At six o’clock Mr. Hawker arrived at Bideford. There was no carriage at the station to meet him. He hurried to the inn where he put up, and ordered his conveyance. He was told that his man was incapable.
“Send him to me, send him here,” he thundered, pacing the coffee-room in great excitement.
“Please, sir, he is under a heap of straw and hay in a loose box in the stable dead drunk.”