"I am not in trim for riding," I replied, "with these thin white trousers, shoes, and silk stockings; my legs will be awfully chafed." "Never mind, my good fellow, we will go as slow as you please, and you shall have your choice, short or long traces." The postilions had alighted, and, having borrowed their whips, we exchanged places, and in less time than I can describe it the Golden Ball was mounted on a high-stepping thoroughbred leader, while I was piloting two as handsome wheelers as ever trotted their twelve miles an hour. No event worthy of record occurred upon the road. It is true that the pole occasionally reminded my brother postilion that the traces were slack, that we grazed a carrier's cart upon entering Deptford, that we frightened an itinerant vendor of apples and pears as we dashed over Blackheath, and, finally, that we upset a one-horse chaise standing in the High Street of the town identified with Pigou and gunpowder. As we drove up to the door of the "Bull Inn" we found, to our great horror, a crowd assembled in front of it. "Pull up!" I bellowed at the top of my voice. "I can't," responded my friend. "Then turn in down the yard. Take a good sweep, or we shall upset the carriage." We did turn in with no greater damage than carrying away a wooden post, breaking a lamp, rubbing a piece of skin off the near leader, and tearing his rider's Hessian boot. A cheer was then heard from the assembled crowd. We jumped off our horses, gave them up to the two postilions, who had hastily descended from the carriage, and made our way to the entrance, where the landlord, landlady, waiter, and ostler stood, looking as much astonished as the inhabitants of Edmonton did when Johnny Gilpin made his appearance in that town. Unfortunately Cowper was not with us to immortalise our adventure. "Can we have four horses immediately?" asked Ball Hughes, in his blandest manner. "The packet starts early for Calais." "First and second turn out!" shouted the ostler, while mine host could scarcely repress a smile. An _éclaircissement_ took place when it appeared that Queen Caroline, the ill-fated wife of the Fourth George, had been expected; that some Dartford Paul Pry had caught a view of the gold embroidered velvet jackets and caps of the postilions, and had given the signal for the cheers, mistaking the inmates of the carriage for at least Lord Hood in his Chamberlain's dress, Sir Matthew Wood in his Aldermanic gown, or Her Majesty herself decked out in Royal attire. Finding we could not reach Dover in time for the boat to Calais we stopped for the night at the "Rose," Sittingbourne.