There was once a pond beside the road near Bawtry (where is it now, alas!) to which a history belonged, for into it used to drive the villainous postboys of lang syne, who were in the pay of the highwaymen. They would, as though by accident, whip suddenly into it, and when the occupants of the chaise let down the windows and looked out, to see what was the matter, they were confronted with the grinning muzzle of a pistol, and the dread alternative demand for their money or their lives. Past this dread spot, and over the rise and dip in the road on leaving the town, the galloping stage is reached, a dead level by the palings of Rossington Park and on to Rossington Bridge, where the tollgate was, and now is not. The inn too, has, like many another, taken down its sign, and retired into private occupation. Off to the left is Rossington village, and in the churchyard, the grave, for those who like to turn aside to see it, of Charles Bosvile, “King of the Gipsies.” Here we are four miles and a half from Doncaster, or, as a Yorkshireman would say, four miles “and a way-bit.” Ask a Yorkshireman how far it is to any place along the road, and he will most likely answer you, so many miles “and a way-bit.” This is probably his pronunciation of “wee bit.” It is often said that the “way-bit” is generally as long as the rest put together. This expression compares with the Scottish so many miles “and a bittock.” XXXIV FROM Rossington Bridge, a long pale rise, bordered by coppices of hazels and silver birches, leads past Cantley to Tophall, where one of the old road wagons was struck by lightning on the 22nd of May 1800. One of the seven horses drawing the wagon was killed, and four others were stunned; while the great lumbering conveyance and its load of woollen cloths, muslins, cottons, rabbit-down and a piano were almost entirely burnt. The disaster was a long-remembered event for miles round, and one of the Doncaster inns was renamed from it, the “Burning Waggon.” This house has long since been renamed the “Ship.” Passing Tophall, and by a bridge over the railway cutting, Doncaster is seen, with its great church-tower, smoking chimney-stalks, and puffing locomotives, map-like, down below, three miles away. Two miles further, past Hawbush, or Lousybush, Green, on which unaristocratically named spot old-time tramps used to congregate, Doncaster racecourse is reached, on the old Town Moor.