"Mr. Thorne! Isn't it Mr. Percival Thorne?"
It was the young artist driving back to the farm in Mr. Collins's old gig, and inducing Mr. Collins's old horse to go at a headlong pace. "I thought it was you standing in the moonlight," he said. "Can't I give you a lift?"
Percival accepted, and they started off, if possible more vehemently than before.
"I must look sharp," explained the young man whose name was Alf, "or I shall be late at the farm."
"You have only just come from Fordborough?" said Percival.
"No. I put up the horse and stayed later than I meant. I'd no idea that dull little hole of a town could wake up so. Why, it is flapping with flags from one end to the other. I never saw such a lot of tramps and drunken men in my life."
"Charming idea you have of waking up!"
"And brass bands and gypsies," the other went on. "When I wanted to come away the hostler was drunk and couldn't find the horse, and I couldn't find the gig; that is, I could find a score all exactly like this one, but as to knowing which of all the gigs in the yard belonged to old Collins, I couldn't have told to save my life."
"You got it at last, I suppose?" said Thorne.
The other was cautious: "Well, I got this. The man put the horse in somehow, and then he was so far gone he began to talk to himself and undo the harness again. I believe he thought he'd put in a pair by mistake, and was trying to take one out. However, I stopped that, and got away after a fashion."