“Make him come.”
After some delay the information was brought him, that, when Mr. Stanlake after great efforts had been reared upon his legs he had fallen over again.
“Put the horses to. I can drive as well as Stanlake. I will drive home myself; and do you shove that drunken boor head and crop into the carriage.”
The phaeton was brought to the door: the vicar mounted the box, the drunken servant was tumbled inside, the door shut on him, and off they started for a long night drive with no moon in the sky, and frosty stars looking down on the wintry earth.
Half-way between Bideford and Morwenstow, in descending a hill the pole-strap broke; the carriage ran forward on the horses’ heels; they plunged, and the pole drove into the hedge; with a jerk one of the carriage springs gave way.
Mr. Hawker, afraid to get off the box without some one being at hand to hold the horses’ heads, shouted lustily for help. No one came.
“Stanlake, wake up! Get out!”
A snore from inside was the only answer. Mr. Hawker knocked the glasses with his whip handle, and shouted yet louder: “You drunken scoundrel, get out and hold the horses!”
“We won’t go home till morning, till daylight doth appear,” chanted the tipsy man in bad tune from within.
After some time a labourer, seeing from a distance the stationary carriage lamps, and wondering what they were, arrived on the scene. By his assistance the carriage was brought sideways to the hill, the horses were taken out, a piece of rope procured to mend the harness and tie up the broken spring; and Mr. Hawker, remounting the box, drove forward, and reached Morwenstow vicarage about one o’clock at night.