“Trumpeter, as the farmer had promised, was quiet as a lamb.  He went forward at a steady jog, and even had the good sense to quarter on his own account for the one or two vehicles we met on the broad road.  Pretty soon I began to experiment gingerly with the reins; and by the time we reached Tregarrick streets, was handling them with quite an air, while observing the face of everyone I met, to make sure I was not being laughed at.  The prospect of Tregarrick Fore Street frightened me a good deal, and there was a sharp corner to turn at the entrance of the inn-yard.  But the old horse knew his business so well that had I pulled on one rein with all my strength I believe it would have merely annoyed, without convincing, him.  He took me into the yard without a mistake, and I gave up the reins to the ostler, thanking Heaven and looking careless.

“The inn was crowded with mourners, eating and drinking and discussing the dead man’s virtues.  They packed the Assembly Room at the back, where the subscription dances are held, and the reek of hot joints was suffocating.  I caught sight of the widow Walters bustling up and down between the long tables and shedding tears while she changed her guests’ plates.  She heard my message, welcomed me with effusion, and thrusting a plateful of roast beef under my nose, hurried away to put on her bonnet for the funeral.

“A fellow on my right paused with his mouth full to bid me eat.  ’Thank you,’ I said, ’my only wish is to get out of this as quickly as possible.’

“He contemplated me for half a minute with an eye like an ox’s; remarked ‘You’ll be a furriner, no doubt;’ and went on with his meal.

“If the feasting was long, the funeral was longer.  We sang so many burying-tunes, and the widow so often interrupted the service to ululate, that the town clock had struck four when I hurried back from the churchyard to the inn, and told the ostler to put my horse in the gig.  I had little time to spare.

“‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ the ostler said, ’but I’m new to this place—­only came here this day week.  Which is your horse?’

“‘Oh,’ I answered, ‘he’s a brown.  Make haste, for I’m in a hurry.’

“He went off to the stables and returned in about two minutes.

“’There’s six brown hosses in the stable, sir.  Would you mind coming and picking out yours?’

“I followed him with a sense of impending evil.  Sure enough there were six brown horses in the big stable, and to save my life I couldn’t have told which was Trumpeter.  Of any difference between horses, except that of colour, I hadn’t an idea.  I scanned them all anxiously, and felt the ostler’s eye upon me.  This was unbearable.  I pulled out my watch, glanced at it carelessly, and exclaimed—­

“’By George, I’d no notion it was so early!  H’m, on second thoughts, I won’t start for a few minutes yet.’

“This was my only course—­to wait until the other five owners of brown horses had driven home.  I strolled back to the inn and talked and drank sherry, watching the crowd thin by degrees, and speeding the lingering mourners with all my prayers.  The minutes dragged on till nothing short of a miracle could take me back in time to open the night-class.  The widow drew near and talked to me.  I answered her at random.