At the time we make its acquaintance the landlord had turned small farmer, and had aggrandised his stables into barns, and degraded his spare bedrooms into lumber garrets. However, the good, dry skittle ground still remained, and the hum of voices and incessant rumbling from within proved that this scientific game did not lack supporters. It was a low cattle-shed kind of place, with benches down the walls and at either end. On the opposite corners were two small tables, fitted with mugs and pipes. A portly individual in a white apron filled up the doorway as Peace arrived in front of the old village inn, in the front of which was a horse-trough, a large chestnut tree, and a post bearing at its top the sign of the house. “Good day, friend,” said Peace to the host of the “Carved Lion.” “I’m wearied and footsore, and crave a little rest and refreshment.” “Both are at your service, neighbour,” returned the landlord, making way for the new comer by withdrawing into the bar. Peace entered the parlour, and in a few minutes a mug of ale, together with some cold meat and pickles, were served him, which he devoured with evident relish. Meanwhile those in the skittle ground were busily occupied. “Come on, lads, another ge-ame!” cried a lusty, young fellow, with his sleeves rolled up to his shoulder. “Come on, mates, one more. Ye doant mean to say ye ha don yet.” “I doant know ’xactly what to say about it,” replied a middle-aged man, who was also in his shirt sleeves. “I tell ye what it be, ye a deal too good for me, a doubt.” “Noa――noa, come on,” returned the other, with the mellifluity of a Whitechapel skittle sharper. “Never fear, guv’nor, luck will be sure to change. Doant be so quavery mavery over it. Let’s have one more pint for I’m jolly dry.” “You start first, then.” “Get out of my way some of you chaps, and make yourselves look less,” said the young man, in a voice prophetic of victory. Taking from the ground a wooden missile in the shape of a cheese, he poised it between his fingers as if it had been a pebble, and, casting the whole weight of his body, pitched the ball towards the upright pins. It struck the front pin on the left shoulder, and, pirouetting round the ring, knocked all down. “Brayvo――brayvo!” cried the rustics, knocking their great mugs against the table. “A floorer.” “That was a squiver,” said one of them. “Nothing like a flat ball to tiddle ’em over.” “Fust hoss to Bill,” cried another, chalking down one on the table. “You’ve got your Sunday play on to-day,” said the other, as he took the ball in his hands. His throw was less fortunate. Only one pin fell, which, after rolling among the others and creating a false interest for awhile, calmly subsided in the dust. “There, I give ’ee the game and the pot. There’s no tackling ye at skittles to-night, that’s sartin; and I can’t make no how of it either.”