a crown?"

The waggoner, stout, red-faced, and jolly-looking, nodded an emphatic
assent.

"I'd do it for 'arf the money!" he said. "Gi' us yer 'and, old gaffer!"

The "old gaffer" obeyed, and was soon comfortably seated between the
projecting corners of two flour sacks, which in their way were as
comfortable as cushions.

"'Old on there," said the waggoner, "an' ye'll be as safe as though ye
was in Abram's bosom. Not that I knows much about Abram anyway. Wheer
abouts d'ye want in Minehead?"

"The railway station."

"Right y' are! That's my ticket too. Tired o' trampin' it, I s'pose,
aint ye?"

"A bit tired--yes. I've walked since daybreak."

The waggoner cracked his whip, and the horses plodded on. Their heavy
hoofs on the dusty road, and the noise made by the grind of the cart
wheels, checked any attempt at prolonged conversation, for which
Helmsley was thankful. He considered himself lucky in having met with a
total stranger, for the name of the owner of the waggon, which was duly
displayed both on the vehicle itself and the sacks of flour it
contained, was unknown to him, and the place from which it had come was
an inland village several miles away from Weircombe. He was therefore
safe--so far--from any chance of recognition. To be driven along in a
heavy mill cart was a rumblesome, drowsy way of travelling, but it was
restful, and when Minehead was at last reached, he did not feel himself
at all tired. The waggoner had to get his cargo of flour off by rail, so
there was no lingering in the town itself, which was as yet scarcely
astir. They were in time for the first train going to Exeter, and
Helmsley, changing one of his five-pound notes at the railway station,
took a third-class ticket to that place. Then he paid the promised
half-crown to his friendly driver, with an extra threepence for a
morning "dram," whereat the waggoner chuckled.

"Thankee! I zee ye be no temp'rance man!"

Helmsley smiled.

"No. I'm a sober man, not a temperance man!"

"Ay! We'd a parzon in these 'ere parts as was temp'rance, but 'e took
'is zpirits different like! 'E zkorned 'is glass, but 'e loved 'is gel!
Har--ar--ar! Ivir 'eerd o' Parzon Arbroath as woz put out o' the Church
for 'avin' a fav'rite?"

"I saw something about it in the papers," said Helmsley.

"Ay, 'twoz in the papers. Har--ar--ar! 'E woz a temp'rance man. But wot
I sez is, we'se all a bit o' devil in us, an' we can't be temp'rance
ivry which way. An' zo,