TTTK EXETER ROAD 107 



waiter, and mistakes the well-dressed person who answers 

 it for the landlord. " Pray, sir," said he, " have you any 

 slow coach down the road to-day ? " 



" Why yes, sir," replies John ; " we shall have the 

 Regulator down in an hour." 



Upon which Mirabel remarks that the Regulator will 

 do, as it will enable him to breakfast, which he has not 

 done that day. Upon which John breaks into lamenta- 

 tions, which must often have been heard in those days 

 when fast coaches had come into fashion and were kill- 

 ing old inns. 



" These here fast drags," he cries, " be the ruin of us. 

 'Tis all hurry, scurry, and no gentleman has time to 

 have nothing on the road." Here he breaks off. " What 

 will you take, sir ? Mutton chops, veal cutlets, beef- 

 steaks, or a fowl } " (to kill.) 



Having duly breakfasted off tough beef-steak and 

 memories of the past, old Mirabel sees the Regulator 

 draw up at the door. He sees also that it is a strong, 

 well-built drag, painted chocolate, bedaubed all over with 

 gilt letters, a bull's head on the doors, a Saracen's head 

 on the hind boot, and drawn by four strapping horses. 

 Amongst other sights which inspire him with confidence 

 the coachman must be numbered, who has neither the 

 neatness nor the agility of the artist of the Comet, but 

 is nearly double his size. Mirabel now asks what room 

 there is in the coach. " Full inside, sir, and in front," 

 is the answer, " but you can have the gammon board all 

 to yourself." " Ah ! " says Mirabel, '' something new again, 

 I suppose ; " and mounts up the ladder to inspect it. He 

 finds himself on a seat which enables him to sit back or 

 front to the horses as he may like best, thinks himself 

 lucky, and at the same moment the Regulator leaves the 

 village of Bagshot at a steady pace, to the tune of " Scots 

 wha hae wi' Wallace bled," and continues at that steady 

 pace for the first five miles. Mirabel now congratulates 

 himself ; but his song of gladness is soon, unlucky man, to 

 be turned into a dirge. For the Regulator, though a slow 



