There were ghastly scenes as well as humorous ones—an old horse, killed by the day's work and thrown into the ditch by the roadside, axletrees broken by the heavy loads and people thrown out of their carts and cut, boy tramps dragging along like worn-out old men, and a Welsher with his clothes torn to ribbons, stealing across the fields to escape a yelping and infuriated crowd.
But the atmosphere was full of gaiety, and Glory laughed at nearly everything. Lord Robert, with his arm about Betty's waist, was chaffing a coster who had a drunken woman on his back seat. “Got a passenger, driver?” “Yuss, sir, and I'm agoin' 'ome to my wife to-night, and thet's more nor you dare do.” A young fellow in pearl buttons was tramping along with a young girl in a tremendous hat. He snatched her hat off, she snatched off his; he kissed her, she smacked his face; he put her hat on his own head, she put on his hat; and then they linked arms and sang a verse of the Old Dutch.
Glory reproduced a part of this love-passage in pantomime, and Drake screamed with laughter.
It was seven o'clock before they reached the outskirts of London. By that time a hamper on the coach had been emptied and the bottles thrown out; the procession had drawn up at a dozen villages on the way; the perspiring tipsters, with whom “things hadn't panned out well,” had forgotten their disappointments and “didn't care a tinker's! cuss”; every woman in a barrow had her head-gear in confusion, and she was singing in a drunken wail. Nevertheless Drake, who was laughing and talking constantly, said it was the quietest Derby night he had ever seen, and he couldn't tell what things were coming to.
“Must be this religious mania, don't you know,” said lord Robert, pointing to a new and very different scene which they had just then come upon.
It was an open space covered with people, who had lit fires as if intending to camp out all night, and were now gathered in many groups, singing hymns and praying. The drunken wails from the procession stopped for a moment, and there was nothing heard but the whirring wheels and the mournful notes of the singers. Then “Father Storm!” rose like the cry of a cormorant from a thousand throats at once. When the laughter that greeted the name had subsided, Betty said:
“'Pon my honour, though, that man must be off his dot,” and the lady in blue went into convulsions of hysterical giggling. Drake looked uneasy, and Lord Robert said, “Who cares what an Elephant says?” But Glory took no notice now, save that for a moment the smile died off her face.
It had been agreed, when they cracked the head off the last bottle, that the company should dine together at the Cafè Royal or Romano's, so they drove first to Drake's chambers to brush the dust off and to wash and rest. Glory was the first to be ready, and while waiting for the others she sat at the organ in the sitting-room and played something. It was the hymn they had heard in the suburbs. At this there was laughter from the other side of the wall, and Drake, who seemed unable, to lose sight of her, came to the door of his room in his shirt sleeves. To cover up her confusion she sang a “coon” song. The company cheered her, and she sang another, and yet another. Finally she began My Mammie, but floundered, broke down, and cried.
“Rehearsal, ten in the morning,” said Betty.
Then everybody laughed, and while Drake busied himself putting Glory's cloak on her shoulders, he whispered: “What's to do, dear? A bit off colour to-night, eh?”