"You'll perish when the sun gets up." There was a silence while they looked at each other. Then the man swore, struggled a little and sat up. "Have you far to go?" Power said.
"Pelican Pool."
"Are you Gregory?"
"That's me when I'm home."
Power lost patience. "Well, what the devil are you doing? Are you coming or staying?"
"You're a nice bloke to help a sick cove." Gregory came across the whisky bottle. He dragged it from his pocket, and waved it in the moonlight. "I reckon I've a thirst you couldn't buy; no, not fer ten quid. Have one at the same time? No! I reckoned as much from a long-faced coot like you!"
"Get up," Power said, "and I'll give you a hand with the horse."
The beast waited for Power to catch it. Gregory had found his feet, and stood in the middle of the path looking at the whisky bottle. He proved very groggy; but recourse to the bottle put him in braver spirit, and he fell to cursing Surprise and all that lies within its gates.
"Here you are," Power said. "Go steady. I'll leg you up."
It took trouble and a pretty play of oaths to bring about the lifting up. The horse stood like a rock. Gregory swore his leg was broken; but he gained the saddle, and afterwards kept balance in a surprising way. Power, in no good temper, turned things over, and decided to take him to the Pool. It meant a journey longer by five miles—bad luck which swearing wouldn't mend.