At another such inn I gathered that gambling is a perilous pastime, when you do not know your fellow gamblers. “There wass three young men” said a sort of an Elder to me in the smoking-room, “that wass very desirous to play cards, and they could not get an-ny one to play with them: and, while they were waiting for some one, you know, there ca-ame in a stranger that offered to play with them. And he sat down”--here the Elder’s voice sank, and he glared at me like the Ancient Mariner--“and it is truth that I am telling you, he won from them every penny that they had in the world, and went awa-ay with the money; and (_molto misterioso_) they say he wass the fery living spit and image of----” (and he named a famous Baptist preacher). “Was it Satan” (I asked) “in this unlikely garb? Why did he ‘make up’ like that angel of sweetness and light? If it was the preacher _revenant_, how did he acquire this skill in cards? Did he cheat, or did he exhibit supernatural skill? What game was it? If whist, why did not his partner score also? Think it was Nap, or Loo? Then why did they insist on a fourth man?” But the Elder knew no more about “the famous victory” than did old Kaspar of Blenheim. At another inn, where I called for such lunch as one can get in country inns, I found a small party of villagers, and the arrival of a strange Saxon produced a momentary silence. This was broken by the oldest inhabitant, who seemed to be impressed by my length of limb. Evidently he was the Mercury, or chief speaker: “Fery high,” said he. I admitted the charge. “Yes, sure: going to rain, think you?” I disclaimed special knowledge, but remarked that the glass was going down. “Ah, weather-glass?” said the old man, after an interval for mental translation. “There wass an old man, John Jones, Llanfair, fery old-fashioned man, had a weather-glass; and one time he wass wanting to get in his hay, and the glass go up, up, up, and the rain come down, down, down, and at last John get quite mad, and he ta-ake the glass and go to the door, and hold it up to the rain, and he say, ‘There, now, see for yourself.’” I repaid him with laughter. I suppose the villagers knew that story from their cradles, but they laughed a gentle welcome to an old friend. Mercury was encouraged to further efforts. “Another time it came on to rain worse than that time, and the river wass above the bank, and wass carry off all the hay that wass lying about; and John Jones wass trying to sa-ave it, but it wass all carried away, and he say, ‘TAD ANWYL! (dear Father), take the rake and fork too,’ and he throw them into the river. Fery old-fashioned man, John Jones, Llanfair.” Alas! my train came in sight, and I had to run, leaving the tale of John Jones, like Cambuscan’s, half told.