ne place where whisky was sold; and
when at last he drove out of the town, he had but just enough power of
self-control to keep himself from swaying about visibly as he sat in his
sleigh. He was in boisterous spirits, and greeted every acquaintance he
met with some rough jest--pointless but noisy--singing snatches of
songs, and flourishing his whip with an air of tipsy bravado. At a small
tavern near the sawmill he dismounted for the last time.

It was a little after noon, and several of the men employed about the
mill were lounging round the stove in the tavern when Clarkson went in.
He found some of his own particular associates among the group, and,
being in a generous humour, he pulled out a dirty dollar-note and
ordered glasses round. These were followed by others; and when, after
another half-hour, he got into his sleigh again, he was quite beyond the
power of guiding his horse, or even of seeing where he was going. He was
more noisy than ever; and as he started off, some of his more sober
companions shouted warnings after him, and stood watching him as he
went, with a pretty strong feeling that he was not likely to reach home
safely.

In fact, he had proceeded but a little way across the open plain where
Dr. Morton's body had been found when he took a wrong direction, and,
instead of keeping a tolerably straight line towards his own home, he
turned to the left, following a track which led to the water's edge,
and ran beside it, over broken and boggy ground, until after making a
semicircle it rejoined the principal road on the further side of the
plain. No sober man would have chosen this track, for it was heavy for
the horse, and was carried over several rough bridges across the large
drains which had lately been cut to carry off the water from the swamp.
The deep snow which had fallen, with little previous frost, lay soft and
thick over the whole ground; it covered the holes in the bridges, and so
choked up the drains that in many places they were completely concealed,
and what appeared to be a smooth level surface of ground might really be
a dangerous pitfall. Here, however, Clarkson chose to go. He flogged his
horse unmercifully, and the sleigh flew over the ground, scattering the
snow and striking every moment against some roughness of the road which
it concealed. They passed one of the drains safely, though the round
logs of which the bridge was formed shook and rattled under them; but
between that and the