“Blow up for the change,” says the coachman to the guard, as, having passed through Carlton-on-Trent, Sutton-on-Trent, and round the awkward bend of the road at Weston, we approach Scarthing Moor and the “Black Bull.” “They’re a sleepy lot at the ‘Bull,’” he says, in explanation. The guard produces the “yard of tin” from the horn-basket, and sounds a melodious tantara: quite unnecessarily, after all, it seems, for, quite a distance off, the ostler, dressed after his kind in trousers and shirt only, with braces dangling about him, is seen standing in the road, with the change ready and waiting. “Got up before you found yourself, this morning?” asks the coachman. The ostler says he don’t take no sauce from no boys what ain’t been breeched above a twelvemonth. “All right, Sam,” replies the coachman; “your ’art’s all right, if you _have_ got a ’ed full of wool. Shouldn’t wonder if you don’t make up for this mistake of yourn by sleepin’ it out for a month of Sundays after this. If so be you do, jest hang the keys of the stable outside, and when we come down agen, Jim and me ’ll put ’em in ourselves, won’t we, Jim?” Jim says they will, and will petition Guv’ment to pension him off, and retire him to the “R’yal ’Orsepital for Towheads.” Evidently some ancient feud between the ostler and the coach is in progress, and still far from being settled. The ostler sulkily watches us out of sight, as we make our next stage to Retford. The clocks in the market-place of that busy little town mark half-past seven, and the “White Hart,” where we drop a passenger for the Gainsborough coach and another for Chesterfield, and take up another for York, is a busy scene. Appetising aromas of early breakfasts being prepared put a keener edge upon our already sharpened appetites, and we all devoutly wish we were at Doncaster, where _our_ breakfast awaits the coming of the coach. Across Barnby Moor, past the great “Bell” inn, we take our way, and come to one more change, at the “Crown,” Bawtry; then hie away for Doncaster, which we reach, past Rossington Bridge and the famous St. Leger course, at half-past nine o’clock. “Twenty minutes for breakfast, gentlemen,” announces the coachman as we pull up in front of the “New Angel” inn; while the guard, who has come with us all the way from London, now announces that he goes no farther. We give him half a crown, and hasten, as well as stiffened limbs allow, down the ladder placed for us outsides to alight by, to the breakfast-room. We catch a glimpse of ourselves in a mirror as we enter. Heavens! is it possible an all-night journey can make so great a difference in a man’s personal appearance? While here is a lady who has been an inside passenger all the way from town, and yet looks as fresh and blooming as though she had but just dressed for a walk. How do they manage it, those delicate creatures?