The main road was empty except for a caravan—­a caravan gaily painted in red and yellow.  It had little lace curtains at the window.  It was altogether a most fascinating caravan.  No one seemed to be near it.  William looked through the windows.  There was a kind of dresser with crockery hanging from it, a small table and a little oil stove.  The further part was curtained off but no sound came from it, so that it was presumably empty too.  William wandered round to inspect the quadruped in front.  It appeared to be a mule—­a mule with a jaundiced view of life.  It rolled a sad eye towards William, then with a deep sigh returned to its contemplation of the landscape.  William gazed upon caravan and steed fascinated.  Never, in his future life of noble merit, would he be able to annex a caravan.  It was his last chance.  No one was about.  He could pretend that he had mistaken it for his own caravan or had got on to it by mistake or—­or anything.  Conscience stirred faintly in his breast, but he silenced it sternly.  Conscience was to rule him for the rest of his life and it could jolly well let him alone this day.  With some difficulty he climbed on to the driver’s seat, took the reins, said “Gee-up” to the melancholy mule, and the whole equipage with a jolt and faint rattle set out along the road.

William did not know how to drive, but it did not seem to matter.  The mule ambled along and William, high up on the driver’s seat, the reins held with ostentatious carelessness in one hand, the whip poised lightly in the other was in the seventh heaven of bliss.  He was driving a caravan.  He was driving a caravan.  He was driving a caravan.  The very telegraph posts seemed to gape with envy and admiration as he passed.  What ultimately he was going to do with his caravan he neither knew nor cared.  All that mattered was, it was a bright sunny morning, and all the others were in school, and he was driving a red and yellow caravan along the high road.  The birds seemed to be singing a paeon of praise to him.  He was intoxicated with pride.  It was his caravan, his road, his world.  Carelessly he flicked the mule with the whip.  There are several explanations of what happened then.  The mule may not have been used to the whip; a wasp may have just stung him at that particular minute; a wandering demon may have entered into him.  Mules are notoriously accessible to wandering demons.  Whatever the explanation, the mule suddenly started forward and galloped at full speed down the hill.  The reins dropped from William’s hands; he clung for dear life on to his seat, as the caravan, swaying and jolting along the uneven road, seemed to be doing its utmost to fling him off.  There came a rattle of crockery from within.  Then suddenly there came another sound from within—­a loud, agonised scream.  It was a female scream.  Someone who had been asleep behind the curtain had just awakened.

William’s hair stood on end.  He almost forgot to cling to the seat.  For not one scream came but many.  They rent the still summer air, mingled with the sound of breaking glass and crockery.  The mule continued his mad career down the hill, his reins trailing in the dust.  In the distance was a little gipsy’s donkey cart full of pots and pans.  William found his voice suddenly and began to warn the mule.