But the world became wrapped up more and more in deep white darkness, as I trudged on. As the houses along the road grew scarcer, they seemed to go by me more heavily and slowly, and with less and less power of companionship. There was scarcely a man to say “Good-night” to; and the one or two I met would not open mouth to answer. And when I came through a great open space, with a white spire standing like a giant’s ghost, I could hardly be sure that it was Turnham Green, so entirely was distance huddled up with snow. But I ran into a white thing in the middle of the road, and the gleam of an ostler’s lantern showed me that it was a brewer’s dray, with the horses taken out, and standing with their heads between their legs close by a sign-post. “You better turn in, mate,” the ostler shouted; “you’re a fool if you go further, such a night as this.” I saw a red steam in the bar, and knew that this must be the _Old Pack-Horse Inn_, whose landlord had raised a famous apple; and my better sense told me to follow advice. But the pride of fool’s strength drove me on, and without slacking a foot I lost sight of it in the solid daze. There was nothing to be afraid of yet, and I felt no kind of misgiving, but began to let my legs go on, instead walking consciously. At one time I began to count, as if they were a machine of which I was no longer master. I counted up to a thousand, and thought—“About seven thousand more will do it, and that they can manage without much trouble.” Then I gave up counting, and must have passed through Brentford, as in a dream, and so to Twickenham, and through that again. There were nearer ways in better weather; but although I could not think clearly now (through cold, and clogging feet, and constant dazzle of white fall around me) I had sense enough to stick to highways, as long as they would stick to me. At Twickenham I had a mind to stop and get something to eat, being faint with hunger, for I had seven and sixpence in my waistcoat pocket. I cannot tell why I did not stop, and only know that I went on. The snow must have been ten inches deep on the level, and as many feet in the drifts, for a strong wind urged it fiercely, when I came at last to the _Bear_ at Hanworth, an old-established and good hotel. The principal entrance was snowed up, from the sweep of the roads that meet there, for every road running east and west was like a cannon exploding snow. But I went in by the little door round the corner, and finding only the barman there—for all neighbours had been glad to get home while they could—I contrived, with some trouble, to ask for a glass of hot brandy and water. So great was the change from the storm and the whirl, that my brain seemed to beat like a flail in a barn, and the chairs were all standing on the ceiling.