Love in Chief by R.K. Weekes — Read

Ten minutes later a train passed southwards across the arch. It had discharged passengers at the station, and among them one who soon came driving down the lane in a high dog-cart fitted with pneumatic tyres, acetylene lamps, and a correct groom sitting up behind. As it turned the corner the horse, a handsome chestnut signally well groomed, shied violently at John Smith's prostrate figure, and was promptly checked by the driver, who had him well in hand. He looked back over his shoulder. "What's that, Simpson?"

"Drunken man, sir," said the correct groom, stolidly.