By the time the Curate returned, with a jug of soup and three bottles of beer – two of brown for the Churchwarden and the Sexton, and one of mild for soft Mick – the rescued man was sitting on a low slab engraved: Sacred to the Eternal Memory of Job Daniel, Farmer, of Lower Exbury, March 1st 1879, aged 84, his wife Euphemia Daniel, July 7th 1884, aged 65, and their beloved children, Jonah Daniel, February 11th 1840, aged 2, Gilbert Daniel, September 3rd 1844, aged 3, Simon Daniel, March 9th 1850, aged 5, Job Daniel, August 24th 1870, aged 23, Catherine Daniel, December 26th 1872, aged 22, Maryanne Daniel, May 3rd 1877, aged 25, Constance Daniel, October 2nd 1880, aged 26, and Nathaniel Daniel, June 11th 1881, aged 24, now reunited and reposing in the Light of their Eternal Lord; Mick gladly supped the soup and drank the ale, smoking one of the Churchwarden's cigarettes and seemingly none the worse for his incarceration: "methinks I was avin a luvly dream, sir," said he, "an wen I awokened, it was darker than any night ever I saw, sir, an me room seemed ter be shrunken around me bed – or else me an me bed ad growed as big as me room, not that it's much big anyhow, but there weren't no winder, nor blanket an there were me, an no door as I could feel anyware; so I called fer help, until I fell asleep agin, an wen I awokened agin, it were still night, an I kicked the ceilin, an the walls an cried fer help, until I fell asleep agin, an wen I awokened, it were still night, an I thought I must be still asleepin, so I slept agin an it were still night, so I went ter sleepin agin, even though I were starvin ungry, sir, an after a bit I ears sumdy shouting back at me an tellin me ter stay ware I were, cos e din't know I got no door ter go noware else, sir, an then after truly believed I'd bin there fer a long time waitin fer a blue moon there wis awful bangin on the roof an it got broke an the two gennlemen ere, sir, pulled me up an out o the 'ouse, but it weren’t no ouse, sir, it were ere! an I'm right sorry, sir, to give you gennlemen so much work to do, but I thanks ye all fer yer kindliness, sirs," and the Churchwarden whispered to the Curate: "them's more words than soft Mick's ever spoken at one time in his whole life, sir, and I don't think it's really sunk into his soft head that he was taken for dead and buried, quite footfast and facing his real death, for I reckon he thinks it was all a dream, maybe still is, though happen we shouldn't speculate too much about it within his hearing, eh sir? but honestly, have you ever heard the like of this little adventure before, sir, with your knowledge of the world?" and the Curate – who wasn't used to being spoken directly to by anyone in the village, this being his first parish and the Rector usually in residence, there was really no need in the normal course of things for anyone to have a reason to speak to him anyway, so while he was embarrassed at being spoken to so freely, he was also pleased that the Churchwarden – who had held that position for twenty years or so and worked directly under the present Rector for all that time – seemed to regard him as being worth confiding in about the young man, who the Curate had regarded simply as the Village Idiot, without even knowing he had a name, but as he knew that the Rector had strong views about clergy and laity attached to the Church indulging themselves in strong liquor, and might particularly concern himself with the fact that it was the Curate who had purchased the three bottles in The Bull, only because of the extraordinary events which had taken place, he thought perhaps this was now the time to exert some influence, so he stood and surveyed the scene and addressed the three who were all looking quite relaxed and jolly: "well, then, my good fellows, I do believe that you have had an extremely unusual and perhaps even distressing experience tonight – particularly you, Mick – and that the Churchwarden's alacrity in obtaining the aid of the Sexton has in all probability saved your life, Mick, but I do confess to feeling slightly uncomfortable about the three of you drinking alcohol in the church grounds. particularly lolling on tombs smoking. . . . ." he was interrupted by the Churchwarden who pointed at him with the bottle in his hand, saying: "thank you, sir, for purchasing these bottles of beer for the three of us and bringing them to us here, in the graveyard and I don't want to get your goat, so to speak, sir, but if you were served by the Landlord, Mr Harbottle, or by his wife, Rosie, or their daughter Rapunzel, I am sure that they will testify on your behalf to the Rector of your solicitude in bringing home-made soup and three bottles of beer to us three here, an act of selfless and truly altruistic charity, which we all appreciate and therefore will be able to testify on your behalf as well," and he proposed a toast: "to the young Reverend Curate, a friend to the Working Men of this this Parish and a credit to the Church of England!" and the other two joined in: "amen to that, sir!" and finished their beers with relish; but what of him who fell from the sky and landed in the haywain, with his torn meniscus, and confused mind? for it is he who is the central character in our story, so let us leave that convivial scene in the old churchyard and discover what happened to him next.