When Tom Hulme should have risen at four o’clock to return home, his bruised limbs were so stiff and sore that the soldier, who had borne the fatigue of many a campaign, who had bivouacked on the battle-field, after a forced march, and being ready with the sun for the day’s duties, had to confess himself “fettled” by Lancashire clogs, and unable to stir. There was no alternative but to acquaint Mr. Ashton. The mill could not be left without a manager. After the night’s unwonted dissipation, Mr. Ashton slept heavily, and was with difficulty aroused. When once he comprehended the state of affairs, he was on the alert. “It’s a bad business!” said he to his wife, as he dressed in haste. “‘There is nothing so bad, but it might be worse,’” was her consolatory reply. “Never bewail a loss till you have done your best to repair it. Can you not send Mr. Clegg to Whaley-Bridge for a few days?” “My dear, your counsel is invaluable, but I fear there is not time to catch the coach; it is twenty minutes past four now.” “It is sure to be late this morning, and Jabez will catch it if it is to be caught,” was her quick rejoinder. Bess had already awakened Jabez, and he, fully dressed, met Mr. Ashton at his bedroom door with “Can I be of any service, sir?” A prompt commentary on Mrs. Ashton’s declaration. A few necessaries hastily crammed into a carpet bag; a bowl of milk and a crust of bread as hastily swallowed; and Jabez, accompanied by Mr. Ashton, was on his way to the Palace coach-office confident they were in time, not having heard the guard’s bugle, or met the coach. There was, however, barely time to claim for Mr. Clegg the place already booked for “Mr. Hulme” (Mrs. Hulme’s seat was forfeited), and for him to take his seat, before they were off in a canter, and Mr. Ashton’s business mind was relieved. As the manufacturer, satisfied that the mill-hands at Whaley-Bridge would not be left altogether to their own devices, stood within a short distance of the high steps looking after the vanishing coach, a party of roisterers came swaggering out of the inn, hallooing with all their tipsy might. One in advance of the rest, observing an elderly gentleman below, pointed him out to his companions as fair game, and leaning over the rail to steady himself, cried out— “Halloo, old fogey! are you a Tory or a Radical? D—— me, take your hat off before gentlemen!” and, suiting the action to the word, extended a riding-whip he carried, and jerked Mr. Ashton’s hat off into the dust; whereupon his worthy comrades set up a loud guffaw in admiration of the feat. Naturally Mr. Ashton, his brief reverie disturbed, stooped to pick up the fallen beaver, and making due allowance for the unwonted occasion, turned to remonstrate good-humouredly with an excited stranger who had evidently drunk the king’s health too frequently.