“He says, ‘You take my advice: give him a pint of old ale before you start.’ “‘Old ale,’ I says; ‘why he’s a teetotaler.’ “‘Never you mind that,’ he answers; ‘you give him a pint of old ale. I know these ponies; he’s a good ’un, but he ain’t set. A pint of old ale, and he’ll take you up that hill like a cable tramway, and not hurt himself.’ “I don’t know what it is about this class of man. One asks oneself afterwards why one didn’t knock his hat over his eyes and run his head into the nearest horse-trough. But at the time one listens to them. I got a pint of old ale in a hand-bowl, and brought it out. About half-a-dozen chaps were standing round, and of course there was a good deal of chaff. “‘You’re starting him on the downward course, Jim,’ says one of them. ‘He’ll take to gambling, rob a bank, and murder his mother. That’s always the result of a glass of ale, ’cording to the tracts.’ “‘He won’t drink it like that,’ says another; ‘it’s as flat as ditch water. Put a head on it for him.’ “‘Ain’t you got a cigar for him?’ says a third. “‘A cup of coffee and a round of buttered toast would do him a sight more good, a cold day like this,’ says a fourth. “I’d half a mind then to throw the stuff away, or drink it myself; it seemed a piece of bally nonsense, giving good ale to a four-year-old pony; but the moment the beggar smelt the bowl he reached out his head, and lapped it up as though he’d been a Christian; and I jumped into the cart and started off, amid cheers. We got up the hill pretty steady. Then the liquor began to work into his head. I’ve taken home a drunken man more than once and there’s pleasanter jobs than that. I’ve seen a drunken woman, and they’re worse. But a drunken Welsh pony I never want to have anything more to do with so long as I live. Having four legs he managed to hold himself up; but as to guiding himself, he couldn’t; and as for letting me do it, he wouldn’t. First we were one side of the road, and then we were the other. When we were not either side, we were crossways in the middle. I heard a bicycle bell behind me, but I dared not turn my head. All I could do was to shout to the fellow to keep where he was. “‘I want to pass you,’ he sang out, so soon as he was near enough. “‘Well, you can’t do it,’ I called back. “‘Why can’t I?’ he answered. ‘How much of the road do _you_ want?’ “‘All of it and a bit over,’ I answered him, ‘for this job, and nothing in the way.’ “He followed me for half-a-mile, abusing me; and every time he thought he saw a chance he tried to pass me. But the pony was always a bit too smart for him. You might have thought the brute was doing it on purpose. “‘You’re not fit to be driving,’ he shouted. He was quite right; I wasn’t. I was feeling just about dead beat. “‘What do you think you are?’ he continued, ‘the charge of the Light Brigade?’ (He was a common sort of fellow.) ‘Who sent _you_ home with the washing?’