human
They were only used once, he would say, pointing them out to some friend who had dropped in to see him,
gpt
Come down to my little place and we'll do a morning's cubbing. Can mount you. Say Tuesday night by 6.5, and I'll meet you at Chickenham Station.
human
My little place only a short step from here, so hope you won't mind walking? Porter will take your bag. Yes, the roads _are_ a bit muddy, but that's nothing. Ready? We'll start, then. Don't think walking is quite in my line, especially on pouring wet night. We trudge along dark lane, splashing into deep puddles at every other step.
gpt
Don't mind going a little out of our way, do you? says POWNCEBY,
human
We diverge into dimly-lit street. POWNCEBY disappears into shop, leaving me standing outside. Seems to be at least an hour in grocer's; another ten minutes in butcher's. My teeth chattering now. Start again, and walk on and on. Ask,
gpt
Where's your place, are we anywhere near it?
human
Oh, close by, says POWNCEBY, cheerily. Trudge on again; wet through by this time. Am seriously marshalling supply of cuss-words into their places for use in the near future, when POWNCEBY suddenly grips my arm, dropping pound of sausages from under his own at same moment. They fall into puddle.
gpt
There's my little place, old chap. Wish he wouldn't
human
me. Hardly know the fellow, and begin to hate him now. He picks up sausages, and repeats,
gpt
Fear POWNCEBY is vulgar, never noticed it before. Can just see feeble light in cottage window, apparently miles off. Murmur, faintly,
human
Oh, I see, and struggle along again. My boots like wet paper, now, and trying to imitate suction pump. Do rest of journey silently. Cottage at last. POWNCEBY lifts latch, and we enter. Smell of lamp-oil overpowering. POWNCEBY's
gpt
is labourer's four-roomed cottage, and singularly dirty at that. Met by aggressive elderly female, even dirtier than cottage. POWNCEBY silently hands her mud-stained sausages and two chops, wrapped in newspaper. I don't exactly dine, says POWNCEBY to me,
human
I have supper, you know; same thing, only different name. Being a bachelor, I make no fuss with anyone. Rather wish he would.
gpt
Come upstairs and put yourself straight. Mind that loose board. Not 'up to weight,' as we say, eh? Avoid loose plank and stumble upstairs into sloping-roofed attic. Painted wooden bedstead; ditto washstand. Smells musty. Paper peeling off walls, and ceiling coming down in patches. I shudder, and ask when I may expect portmanteau.
human
Oh, in about an hour, I daresay. Got all you want? Sure that you're _quite_ comfortable? _Mem._ This man evidently an unconscious humorist. Have to borrow (greatly against my will) some dry clothes of POWNCEBY's in absence of my own. Wash, and descend ricketty stairs to sitting room. Fire smokes.
gpt
Like me, says POWNCEBY, facetiously, and laughs uproariously. Must have _very_ keen sense of humour, this man. Aggressive female enters with two chops (fried) and ditto sausages; small jug of table beer and tinned loaf complete picture.
human
Let's fall to, says POWNCEBY;
gpt
(_Mem._ nor for me either, unfortunately,)
human
Do not reply, but attack sausage. Decline fried chop. Beer turgid; leave it untasted; Thank goodness, my portmanteau arrives during repast. Pay porter half-a-crown--looks as if he had earned it. POWNCEBY finishes off my chop and his own too, smacks his lips, and produces bottle of
gpt
brandy. I light cigar, and take one sip of the brandy. Find one sip more than satisfying and do not try another.
human
Got a nice horse for you, to-morrow, says POWNCEBY;