Whittle turned, and ran back a few steps.  “Yes, sir,” he said, in breathless deprecation, as if he knew what was coming next.

“Once more—­be in time to-morrow morning.  You see what’s to be done, and you hear what I say, and you know I’m not going to be trifled with any longer.”

“Yes, sir.”  Then Abel Whittle left, and Henchard and Farfrae; and Elizabeth saw no more of them.

Now there was good reason for this command on Henchard’s part.  Poor Abel, as he was called, had an inveterate habit of over-sleeping himself and coming late to his work.  His anxious will was to be among the earliest; but if his comrades omitted to pull the string that he always tied round his great toe and left hanging out the window for that purpose, his will was as wind.  He did not arrive in time.

As he was often second hand at the hay-weighing, or at the crane which lifted the sacks, or was one of those who had to accompany the waggons into the country to fetch away stacks that had been purchased, this affliction of Abel’s was productive of much inconvenience.  For two mornings in the present week he had kept the others waiting nearly an hour; hence Henchard’s threat.  It now remained to be seen what would happen to-morrow.

Six o’clock struck, and there was no Whittle.  At half-past six Henchard entered the yard; the waggon was horsed that Abel was to accompany; and the other man had been waiting twenty minutes.  Then Henchard swore, and Whittle coming up breathless at that instant, the corn-factor turned on him, and declared with an oath that this was the last time; that if he were behind once more, by God, he would come and drag him out o’ bed.

“There is sommit wrong in my make, your worshipful!” said Abel, “especially in the inside, whereas my poor dumb brain gets as dead as a clot afore I’ve said my few scrags of prayers.  Yes—­it came on as a stripling, just afore I’d got man’s wages, whereas I never enjoy my bed at all, for no sooner do I lie down than I be asleep, and afore I be awake I be up.  I’ve fretted my gizzard green about it, maister, but what can I do?  Now last night, afore I went to bed, I only had a scantling o’ cheese and—­”

“I don’t want to hear it!” roared Henchard.  “To-morrow the waggons must start at four, and if you’re not here, stand clear.  I’ll mortify thy flesh for thee!”

“But let me clear up my points, your worshipful——­”

Henchard turned away.

“He asked me and he questioned me, and then ’a wouldn’t hear my points!” said Abel, to the yard in general.  “Now, I shall twitch like a moment-hand all night to-night for fear o’ him!”

The journey to be taken by the waggons next day was a long one into Blackmoor Vale, and at four o’clock lanterns were moving about the yard.  But Abel was missing.  Before either of the other men could run to Abel’s and warn him Henchard appeared in the garden doorway.  “Where’s Abel Whittle?  Not come after all I’ve said?  Now I’ll carry out my word, by my blessed fathers—­nothing else will do him any good!  I’m going up that way.”