“Well, Quakers or drab-coated gentry like yourself!” the man replied, unmoved. “And every one wi’ pistols and a money bag! Seems that’s what they’re looking for—money, so I hear. Such a driving and foraging up and down the land these days, it’s a wonder the horses’ hoofs bean’t worn off.” “Then,” said Clement, turning about, “I’ll take these on to Meriden.” But the waiting travellers had already climbed into the chaise and were in possession, and the postboy had turned his horses. And, “No, no, you’ll not do that,” said the ostler. “Custom of the road, master! Custom of the road! You must change and wait your turn.” “But there must be something on,” Clement cried in despair, seeing himself detained here, perhaps for the whole night. “Naught! Nary a ’oof in the yard, nor a lad!” the man replied. “You’d best take a bed.” “But when will there be horses?” “Maybe something’ll come in by daylight—like enough.” “By daylight? Oh, confound you!” cried Clement, enraged. “Then I’ll walk on to Meriden.” “Walk? Walk on to——” the ostler couldn’t voice his astonishment. “Walk?” “Ay, walk, and be hanged to you!” Clement cried, and without another word plunged into the darkness of the long, straight road, his bag in his hand. The road ran plain and wide before him, he couldn’t miss it; the distance, according to Paterson, which he had in his handbag, was no more than two miles, and he thought that he could do it in half an hour. But, once away, under the trees, under the midnight sky, in the silence and darkness of the country-side, the fever of his spirits made the distance seem intolerable. As he tramped along the lonely road, doubtful of the wisdom of his action, the feeling of strangeness and homelessness, the sense of the uselessness of what he was doing, grew upon him. At this rate he might as well walk to London! What if there were no horses at Meriden? Or if he were stayed farther up the road? He counted the stages between him and London, and he had time and enough to despair of reaching it, before he at last, at a good four miles an hour, strode out of the night into the semicircle of light which fell upon the road before the Bull’s Head at Meriden. Thank heaven, there were lights in the house and people awake, and some hope still! And more than hope, for almost before he had crossed the threshold a sleepy boots came out of the bar and met him, and “Horses? Which way, sir? Up? I’ll ring the ostler’s bell, sir!” Clement could have blessed him. “Double money to Coventry if I leave the door in ten minutes!” he cried, taking out his watch. And ten minutes later—or in so little over that time as didn’t count—he was climbing into a chaise and driving away: so well organized after all—and all defects granted—was the posting system that at that time covered England. To be sure, he was on one of the great roads, and the Bull’s Head at Meriden was a house of fame.