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Page 20:-
CHAPTER II.
THE dog-cart, with Mr. Thomas Idle and his ankle on the
hanging-seat behind, Mr. Francis Goodchild and the Innkeeper
in front, and the rain in spouts and splashes everywhere,
made the best of its way back to the little inn; the broken
moor country looking like miles and miles of Pre-Adamite
sop, or the ruins of some enormous jorum of antediluvian
toast-and-water. The trees dripped; the eaves on the
scattered cottages dripped; the barren stone walls dividing
the land, dripped; the yelping dogs dripped; carts and
wagons under ill-roofed penthouses, dripped; melancholy
cocks and hens perching on their shafts, or seeking shelter
underneath them, dripped; Mr. Goodchild dripped; Francis
Idle dripped; the Innkeeper dripped; the mare dripped; the
vast curtains of mist and cloud passed before the shadowy
forms of the hills, streamed water as they were drawn across
the landscape. Down such steep pitches that the mare seemed
to be trotting on her head, and up such steep pitches that
she seemed to have a supplementary leg in her tail, the
dog-cart jogged and tilted back to the village. It was too
wet for the women to look out, it was too wet even for the
children to look out; all the doors and windows were closed,
and the only sign of life or motion was in the
rain-punctured puddles.
Whiskey and oil to Thomas Idle's ankle, and whiskey without
oil to Francis Goodchilds stomach, produced an agreeable
change in the systems of both; soothing Mr. Idle's pain,
which was sharp before, and sweetening Mr. Goodchild's
temper, which was sweet before. Portmanteaus being then
opened and clothes
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