He had various places to go to, and both sales and purchases to make, but he found time, as usual, to visit more than one place where whisky was sold; and when at last he drove out of the town, he had but just enough power of self-control to keep himself from swaying about visibly as he sat in his sleigh.

He was in boisterous spirits, and greeted every acquaintance he met with some rough jest--pointless but noisy--singing snatches of songs, and flourishing his whip with an air of tipsy bravado.

At a small tavern near the sawmill he dismounted for the last time.
It was a little after noon, and several of the men employed about the mill were lounging round the stove in the tavern when Clarkson went in.
He found some of his own particular associates among the group, and, being in a generous humour, he pulled out a dirty dollar-note and ordered glasses round.

These were followed by others; and when, after another half-hour, he got into his sleigh again, he was quite beyond the power of guiding his horse, or even of seeing where he was going.

He was more noisy than ever; and as he started off, some of his more sober companions shouted warnings after him, and stood watching him as he went, with a pretty strong feeling that he was not likely to reach home safely.
In fact, he had proceeded but a little way across the open plain where Dr.Morton's body had been found when he took a wrong direction, and, instead of keeping a tolerably straight line towards his own home, he turned to the left, following a track which led to the water's edge, and ran beside it, over broken and boggy ground, until after making a semicircle it rejoined the principal road on the further side of the plain.