Then a long five miles of drought to carry them into Bulwell to a glorious pint of bitter.

But they stayed in a field with some haymakers whose gallon bottle was full, so that, when they came in sight of the city, Morel was sleepy.

The town spread upwards before them, smoking vaguely in the midday glare, fridging the crest away to the south with spires and factory bulks and chimneys.

In the last field Morel lay down under an oak tree and slept soundly for over an hour.

When he rose to go forward he felt queer.
The two had dinner in the Meadows, with Jerry's sister, then repaired to the Punch Bowl, where they mixed in the excitement of pigeon-racing.
Morel never in his life played cards, considering them as having some occult, malevolent power--"the devil's pictures," he called them! But he was a master of skittles and of dominoes.