THE YORK ROAD 



299 



wise call it, from a brother coachman, whose weakness 

 it was to borrow stray whips with no fixed intention of 

 rcturningr them. 



Tlie end of this accomph'shed artist in his own h'ne — 







The Falcon, Huntingdon. 



clearly, from what I can learn, one of the most distin- 

 guished box figures on the first eighty-nine miles out of 

 town of the great north road — is melancholy in the ex- 

 treme to contemplate. But it is typical at the same time 

 of the remorseless destiny forced on men who were really 



