Neville in the interval, sitting in a
sanded parlour, wondering in how long a time after he had gone, the
sneezy fire of damp fagots would begin to make somebody else warm.
Indeed, The Tilted Wagon, as a cool establishment on the top of a
hill, where the ground before the door was puddled with damp hoofs
and trodden straw; where a scolding landlady slapped a moist baby
(with one red sock on and one wanting), in the bar; where the
cheese was cast aground upon a shelf, in company with a mouldy
tablecloth and a green-handled knife, in a sort of cast-iron canoe;
where the pale-faced bread shed tears of crumb over its shipwreck
in another canoe; where the family linen, half washed and half
dried, led a public life of lying about; where everything to drink
was drunk out of mugs, and everything else was suggestive of a
rhyme to mugs; The Tilted Wagon, all these things considered,
hardly kept its painted promise of providing good entertainment for
Man and Beast. However, Man, in the present case, was not
critical, but took what entertainment he could get, and went on
again after a longer rest than he needed.
He stopped at some quarter of a mile from the house, hesitating
whether to pursue the road, or to follow a cart track between two
high hedgerows, which led across the slope of a breezy heath, and
evidently struck into the road again by-and-by. He decided in
favour of this latter track, and pursued it with some toil; the
rise being steep, and the way worn into deep ruts.
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