‘You think I’m drunk, and so do a many; but I’m not drunk. I’ve only a drop of beer on board,’ said the man. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve had the chance, and I’m a-making up for lost time.’ ‘Where are you lodging?’ said the curate, in his stern voice. ‘They said they’d give me a bed there,’ said the stranger, pointing with a hand towards the public-house; ‘but, now they’ve found out about me, they say they won’t. And it’s drefful hard upon a man as has come out of his way for nothing, as ye may say, but to do a good turn. And that’s the reason as I was asking for Missis May; for she’ll put me up if he won’t, a good lady as her husband was my mate, and I’m come to bring her news out of my way.’ ‘Sir,’ said Johnson of the public-house, coming up on the other side, ‘he’s a man as has let out as he’s fresh from Portland, just served out his time; and he’s looking for a woman as is the wife of another of ’em. There ain’t no such person here. I’ve told him over and over again. And I’ve told him to move on, and be off to the station afore the last train goes by. But I can’t get him to do neither one thing nor the other. And I can’t be expected to put up a fellow like that in my house.’ ‘Was it in your house he got all the drink he has swallowed?’ said the curate. ‘If you will not give him a bed to sleep it off in, why did you give him the drink?’ ‘Oh, that’s a different thing. Every man is free to have his glass,’ said Johnson, with a growl of insolence. Then he added, ‘And it only came out in his drink who he was, and all this bother about his Mrs. May. There’s nobody here or hereabout of that name.’ ‘It’s none of you or your miserable holes I want. It’s my mate’s wife as I want,’ said the man. ‘You tell me where she lives, or I’ll--I’ll break all your windows and pull your old barracks about your ears.’ He said this with an interlarding of many oaths, and, swaying back and forward, finally lost his balance and dropped upon the roadside, where John, changing the level of the lantern, poured a stream of light upon him, as he sat up with tipsy gravity, leaning against a low wall which bordered the path, and looking up at the group before him with blank, lacklustre eyes. ‘He can’t be left out here in the cold, whatever he is,’ the curate said. ‘That’s all very well for you, Mr. Cattley. Them as hasn’t got to do a thing never see any difficulty in it,’ said the master of the public-house. ‘I can’t stand here bandying words,’ said the curate; ‘if you will not take him in, I must do it. He can’t be left to be frozen to death in the public road. Some of those fellows who are skulking away in the dark not to face me--but I see them well enough.’ Mr. Cattley raised his voice, and terror ran through the loiterers who had been lingering to see what would come of this exciting incident. ‘Some of them can help me along with him to my house. Come along, and lend a hand, before he goes to sleep.’