Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but
was too drunk to remember to shut the popholes. With the ring of light from
his lantern dancing from side to side, he lurched across the yard, kicked off his
boots at the back door, drew himself a last glass of beer from the barrel in the
scullery, and made his way up to bed, where Mrs. Jones was already snoring.