DOWN THE ROAD IN DAYS OF YORE 75 



" Yes," answers that functionary. " Then give 

 'em their heads, Bill," he says to the ostler ; and 

 away Ave £^0 into the moonlit night at a steady 

 pace. 



The hox-seat passenger, who very successfully 

 kept the original coachman in conversation nearly 

 all the way from London to Huntingdon, does not 

 seem to quite hit it ofi' with our new whip, who 

 is inclined to he huffish, or, at the least of it, given 

 to silence and keeping his oAvn counsel. " Have 

 a weed, coachman ? " he asks, after some in- 

 effectual attempts to get more than a grunt out 

 of him. " Don't mind if I do," is the ungracious 

 reply, and he takes the proffered cigar and — puts 

 it into some pocket somewhere beneath the 

 voluminous capes of his greatcoat. After this, 

 silence reigns supreme. Por ourselves, Ave have 

 chatted throughout the day, and now begin to feel 

 — not sleepy, but meditatiA^e. 



The moon noAV rides in unsullied glory through 

 the azure sky. We top Alconbury Hill at a fcAv 

 minutes to tAvelve, and come to the junction of 

 the Old North and the Great North Roads. 

 EA^erything stands out as clearly as if it Avere 

 daylight, but Avith a certain ghost-like and un- 

 canny effect. " The obelisk," as the coachmen 

 have learned to call the great milestone at the 

 junction of the roads (it is really a square 

 jiedestal) looks particularly spectral, but is not 

 the airy nothing it seems — as the coachman on 

 the Edinburgh Mail discovered, a little Avliile 

 ago. The guard tells us all about it. The usual 



