The vicar of Morwenstow had, some years ago, a servant, whom we will call Stanlake: the man may be still alive, and therefore his real name had better not be given to the world. One day Mr. Hawker ordered his carriage to drive to Bideford, some twenty miles distant. The weather was raw and cold. He was likely to be absent all day, as he was going on to Barnstaple by train to consult his doctor. His compassion was roused by the thought of Stanlake having forty miles of drive in the cold, and a day of lounging about in the raw December air; and just as he stepped into the carriage he produced a bottle of whisky, and gave it to Stanlake. Mr. Hawker was himself a most abstemious man: he drank only water, and never touched wine, spirits, or beer. On the way to Bideford, at Hoops, thinking the coachman looked blue with cold, the vicar ordered him a glass of hot brandy and water. When he reached Bideford station he said: “Now, Stanlake, I shall be back by the half-past four train: mind you meet me with the carriage.” “All right, sir.” But Mr. Hawker did not arrive by the half-past four train. Up till that hour Stanlake had kept sober, he had not touched his bottle of whisky; but finding that his master did not arrive, and that time hung heavily on his hands, he retired to the stable, uncorked the bottle, and drank it off. At six o’clock Mr. Hawker arrived at Bideford. There was no carriage at the station to meet him. He hurried to the inn where he put up, and ordered his conveyance. He was told that his man was incapable. “Send him to me, send him here,” he thundered, pacing the coffee-room in great excitement. “Please, sir, he is under a heap of straw and hay in a loose box in the stable dead drunk.” “Make him come.” After some delay the information was brought him, that, when Mr. Stanlake after great efforts had been reared upon his legs he had fallen over again. “Put the horses to. I can drive as well as Stanlake. I will drive home myself; and do you shove that drunken boor head and crop into the carriage.” The phaeton was brought to the door: the vicar mounted the box, the drunken servant was tumbled inside, the door shut on him, and off they started for a long night drive with no moon in the sky, and frosty stars looking down on the wintry earth. Half-way between Bideford and Morwenstow, in descending a hill the pole-strap broke; the carriage ran forward on the horses’ heels; they plunged, and the pole drove into the hedge; with a jerk one of the carriage springs gave way. Mr. Hawker, afraid to get off the box without some one being at hand to hold the horses’ heads, shouted lustily for help. No one came. “Stanlake, wake up! Get out!” A snore from inside was the only answer. Mr. Hawker knocked the glasses with his whip handle, and shouted yet louder: “You drunken scoundrel, get out and hold the horses!” “We won’t go home till morning, till daylight doth appear,” chanted the tipsy man in bad tune from within.