[He pours out the remains of the tea, and finding there is not
     very much, adds rum rather liberally.  Timson, who walks a
     little wide at the knees, steadying his gait, has followed.]

Timson. [Receiving the drink.] Yer ’ealth.  ’Ere’s—­soberiety! [He applies the drink to his lips with shaking hand.  Agreeably surprised.] Blimey!  Thish yer tea’s foreign, ain’t it?

Ferrand. [Reappearing from behind the screen in his new clothes of which the trousers stop too soon.] With a needle, Monsieur, I would soon have with what to make face against the world.

Wellwyn.  Too short!  Ah!

     [He goes to the dais on which stands ANN’s workbasket, and takes
     from it a needle and cotton.]

     [While he is so engaged Ferrand is sizing up old Timson, as one
     dog will another.  The old man, glass in hand, seems to have
     lapsed into coma.]

Ferrand. [Indicating Timson] Monsieur!

     [He makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes his head.]

Wellwyn. [Handing him the needle and cotton.] Um!  Afraid so!

     [They approach Timson, who takes no notice.]

Ferrand. [Gently.] It is an old cabby, is it not, Monsieur?  ’Ceux sont tous des buveurs’.

Wellwyn. [Concerned at the old man’s stupefaction.] Now, my old friend, sit down a moment. [They manoeuvre Timson to the settle.] Will you smoke?

Timson. [In a drowsy voice.] Thank ’ee-smoke pipe of ’baccer.  Old ‘orse—­standin’ abaht in th’ cold.

     [He relapses into coma.]

Ferrand. [With a click of his tongue.] ‘Il est parti’.

Wellwyn. [Doubtfully.] He hasn’t really left a horse outside, do you think?

Ferrand.  Non, non, Monsieur—­no ’orse.  He is dreaming.  I know very well that state of him—­that catches you sometimes.  It is the warmth sudden on the stomach.  He will speak no more sense to-night.  At the most, drink, and fly a little in his past.

Wellwyn.  Poor old buffer!

Ferrand.  Touching, is it not, Monsieur?  There are many brave gents among the old cabbies—­they have philosophy—­that comes from ’orses, and from sitting still.

Wellwyn. [Touching TIMSON’s shoulder.] Drenched!

Ferrand.  That will do ’im no ’arm, Monsieur-no ’arm at all.  He is well wet inside, remember—­it is Christmas to-morrow.  Put him a rug, if you will, he will soon steam.

     [Wellwyn takes up ANN’s long red cloak, and wraps it round the
     old man.]

Timson. [Faintly roused.] Tha’s right.  Put—­the rug on th’ old ’orse.

     [He makes a strange noise, and works his head and tongue.]

Wellwyn. [Alarmed.] What’s the matter with him?