One human figure alone was visible, as the chairs and mat-laden van slowly turned from the road toward the horse-trough--that of a young man in straw hat and grey flannels making a water-colour sketch of the inn.
Barney Bill slid off the footboard, and, looking neither to right nor left, bolted like a belated crab into the cool recesses of the bar in search of ambrosia from the blue-and-white china mug.

Paul, also afoot, led Bob to the trough.

Bob drank with the lusty moderation of beasts.
When he had assuaged his thirst Paul backed him into the road and, slinging over his head a comforting nosebag, left him to his meal.
The young man, sitting on an upturned wooden case, at the extreme edge of the elm tree's shade, a slender easel before him, a litter of paraphernalia on the ground by his side, painted assiduously.

Paul idly crept behind him and watched in amazement the smears of wet colour, after a second or two of apparent irrelevance, take their place in the essential structure of the drawing.

He stood absorbed.