George Syms had long enjoyed a monopoly in the shoemaking and cobbling line (though latterly two oppositionists had started against him), and Peter Brown was a man well to do in the world, being “the man wot” shod the raw-boned horses before-mentioned, “him and his father, and grandfather,” as the parish-clerk said, “for time immemorial.” These two worthies were regaling themselves, as was their wonted custom, each with his pint, upon a small table, which was placed for their accommodation, when an elderly stranger, of a shabby genteel appearance, approached the Lion, and inquired the road to an adjoining village.--“You are late, Sir,” said George Syms. “Yes,” replied the stranger, “I am;” and he threw himself on the bench, and took off his hat, and began to call about him, notwithstanding his shabby appearance, with the air of one who has money in his pocket to pay his way. “Three make good company,” observed Peter Brown. “Ay, ay,” said the stranger. “Holloa, there! bring me another pint! This walk has made me confoundedly thirsty. You may as well make it a pot--and be quick!” Messrs. Brown and Syms were greatly pleased with this additional guest at their symposium; and the trio sat and talked of the wind, and the weather, and the roads, and the coal trade, and drank and smoked to their hearts’ content, till time began to hang heavy, and then the stranger asked the two friends, if ever they played at tee-to-tum. “Play at what?” asked Peter Brown. “Play at what?” inquired George Syms. “At tee-to-tum,” replied the stranger, gravely taking a pair of spectacles from one pocket of his waistcoat, and the machine in question from the other. “It is an excellent game, I assure you. Rare sport, my masters!” and he forthwith began to spin his teetotum upon the table, to the no small diversion of George Syms and Peter Brown, who opined that the potent ale of the ramping Red Lion had done its office.--“Only see how the little fellow runs about!” cried the stranger, in apparent ecstacy. “Holloa, there! Bring a lantern! There he goes, round and round--and now he’s asleep--and now he begins to reel--wiggle-waggle---down he tumbles! What colour, for a shilling?”--“I don’t understand the game,” said Peter Brown. “Nor I, neither,” quoth George Syms: “but it seems easy enough to learn”--“Oh, ho!” said the stranger; “you think so, do you? But, let me tell you that there’s a great deal more in it than you imagine. There he is, you see, with as many sides as a modern politician, and as many colours as an Algerine.--Come, let us have a game! This is the way!” and he again sat the teetotum in motion, and capered about in exceeding glee. “He, he, he!” uttered George Syms; and “Ha, ha, ha!” exclaimed Peter Brown; and, being wonderfully tickled with the oddity of the thing, they were easily persuaded by the stranger just to take a game together for five minutes, while he stood by as umpire, with a stopwatch in his hand.