There was a milking-stool, which is a thing
made purposely heavy so that it may not be easily upset. If I
tumbled over it once I tumbled over it a dozen times. I got hold of
it at last and carried it about with me. I thought I would use it to
hit the cow--that is, when I had found the front-door. I knew it led
out of the parlour, but could not recollect its exact position. I
argued that if I kept along the wall I should be bound to come to it.
I found the wall, and set off full of hope. I suppose the
explanation was that, without knowing it, I must have started with
the door, not the front-door, the other door, leading into the
kitchen. I crept along, carefully feeling my way, and struck quite
new things altogether--things I had no recollection of and that hit
me in fresh places. I climbed over what I presumed to be a beer-
barrel and landed among bottles; there were dozens upon dozens of
them. To get away from these bottles I had to leave the wall; but I
found it again, as I thought, and I felt along it for another half a
dozen yards or so and then came again upon bottles: the room
appeared to be paved with bottles. A little farther on I rolled over
another beer-barrel: as a matter of fact it was the same beer-
barrel, but I did not know this. At the time it seemed to me that
Robina had made up her mind to run a public-house. I found the
milking-stool again and started afresh, and before I had gone a dozen
steps was in among bottles again.
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