I watched his carriage as it rounded the bend of the road, and so faced about to return to the village.  But I took second thought at sight of the clouds massing across the bay and coming up—­as it seemed to me against the wind.  They spelt thunder.  In spite of my early forebodings I had brought no mackintosh; my duties as a Committee-man were over:  and I have reached an age when fireworks give me no more pleasure than I can cheerfully forgo or take for granted.  I had, having coming thus far on my homeward way, already more than half a mind to pursue it, when the band started to render the ‘Merry Duchess’ waltz, with reed instruments a semitone below the brass.  This decided me, and I reached my door as the first raindrops fell.

When I awoke next morning it was still raining, and raining hard.  The thunderstorm had passed; but a westerly wind, following hard on it, had collected much water from the Atlantic, and the heavens were thick as a blanket.  A tramp in the rain, however, seldom comes amiss to me, and I trudged the three miles to the court-house in very cheerful mood, now smoking, now pocketing my pipe to inhale those first delicious scents of autumn, stored up by summer for a long day of downpour.

Our Court meets at 11.15, and I timed myself (so well I know the road in all weathers) to reach the magistrates’ door on the stroke of the quarter.  Now Sir Felix, as Chairman, makes a point of arriving ten or fifteen minutes ahead of time, for a preliminary chat with the Clerk over the charge-sheet and any small details of business.  I was astonished, therefore, when, turning at the sound of wheels, I beheld Sir Felix’s carriage and pair descending the street behind me.  ‘Truly the Regatta must have unsettled his habits,’ I murmured; and then, catching the eye of one of the pair of constables posted at the door, I gazed again and stood, as some of my fellow-novelists say, ‘transfixed.’  For the driver on the box was neither Sir Felix’s coachman, nor his second coachman, nor yet again one of his stablemen; but a gardener, and a tenth-down under-gardener at that; in fact, you could scarcely call him even an under-gardener, though he did odd jobs about the gardens.  To be short, it was Tommy Collins a hydrocephalous youth generally supposed to be half-baked, or, as we put it in Cornwall, ‘not exactly’; and on his immense head, crowning a livery suit which patently did not belong to him, Tommy Collins wore a dilapidated billycock hat.

As the carriage drew up I noted with a lesser shock that the harness was wrongly crossed:  and with that, as one constable stepped forward to open the carriage door, I saw the other wink and make a sign to Tommy, who—­quick-witted for once—­snatched off his billycock and held it low against his thigh on the off-side, pretending to shake off the rain, but in reality using this device to conceal the horrid thing.  At the same time the other constable, receiving an umbrella which Sir Felix thrust forth, opened it with remarkable dexterity, and held it low over my friend’s venerable head, thus screening from sight the disreputable figure on the box.  As a piece of smuggling it was extremely neat; but as I turned to follow I heard Tommy Collins ask, and almost with a groan,—­