‘Bless me!’ exclaims the old man, ‘what improvements; and the roads!!!’ ‘They are at perfection, sir,’ says the proprietor. ‘No horse walks a yard in this coach between London and Exeter--all trotting-ground now.’ ‘A little _galloping_ ground, I fear,’ whispers the senior to himself. ‘But who has effected all this improvement in your paving?’ ‘An American of the name of M’Adam,’ is the reply; ‘but coachmen call him the Colossus of Roads.’ ‘And pray, my good sir, what sort of horses may you have over the next stage?’ ‘Oh, sir, no more bo-kickers. It is hilly and severe ground and requires cattle strong and staid. You’ll see four as fine horses put to the coach at Staines as ever you saw in a nobleman’s carriage in your life.’ ‘Then we shall have no more galloping--no more springing them as you term it?’ ‘Not quite so fast over the next stage,’ replies the proprietor; ‘but he will make good play over some part of it; for example, when he gets three parts down a hill he lets them loose, and cheats them out of half the one they have to ascend from the bottom of it. In short, they are half-way up it before a horse touches his collar; and we _must_ take every advantage with such a fast coach as this, and one that loads so well, or we should never keep our time. We are now to a minute; in fact, the country people no longer look to the _sun_ when they want to set their clocks--they look only to the _Comet_.’ Determined to see the changing of the team at the next stage, the old gentleman remarks one of the new horses being led to the coach with a twitch fastened tightly to his nose. ‘Holloa, Mr. Horsekeeper!’ he says, ‘you are going to put an unruly horse in.’--‘What! this here _’oss_,’ growls the man; ‘the quietest hanimal alive, sir.’ But the good faith of this pronouncement is somewhat discounted by the coachman’s caution, ‘Mind what you are about, Bob; don’t let him touch the roller-bolt.’ Then, ‘Let ’em go, and take care of yourselves,’ his next remark, seems a little alarming. More alarming still the next happening. The near leader rears right on end, the thoroughbred near-wheeler draws himself back to the extent of his pole-chain, and then, darting forward, gives a sudden start to the coach which nearly dislocates the passengers’ necks. We will not follow every heart-beat of our old friend on this exciting pilgrimage. He quits the coach at Bagshot, congratulating himself on being still safe and sound, and rings the bell for the waiter. [Sidenote: _THE ‘REGULATOR’_] [Illustration: THE ‘REGULATOR’ ON HARTFORD BRIDGE FLATS.] A well-dressed person appears, whom he takes for the landlord. ‘Pray, _sir_,’ says he, ‘have you any _slow_ coach down this road to-day?’--‘Why, yes, sir,’ replies the waiter. ‘We shall have the “Regulator” down in an hour.’