After a year or two I met the adventurous Nilford again, when he informed me that he had put my van quite in the shade by a novel idea of his own. It appears that he was so struck with my mode of life that he purchased an old gipsy-van, and rambled about in it for a week or two together, just when the fit seized him. Then the idea occurred to him of making a pair of boats, into which the wheels of his van were fitted, and by decking the space fore and aft between the boats, he went all over the Broads, and finally coasted it to Essex, whence he had the good or ill luck to be blown over to Holland. As he has written the history of his adventures, it is no business of mine further to divulge them here, but will content myself with calling the reader’s attention to a book entitled, _Afloat in a Gipsy Van_.[C] [C] Jarrold and Sons, 10 and 11, Warwick Lane, London, E.C. VI. INTRODUCTION TO “ROBIN HOOD IN WINTER.” I have somehow a knack of running against men who, without being notable, have still something in their composition which makes them conspicuous among their fellows. Such a man was he from whom I obtained the following story; for it was told me first by my informant _vivâ voce_, and afterwards corrected by him, with an ancient quill pen, which had a habit now and again of spattering the ink, after the fashion of a pyrotechnic display, wherever there happened to be any roughness of the paper. He loved the antique, and lived a long way in rear of the times; quill pens were natural pens, he said, and he would have nothing to do with the modern steel rubbish, as he disdainfully termed our great up-to-date invention. His house, furniture, and clothes were antique, and so were his very person, face, and figure. He was short, thin, curved, and drab. I say drab, because no other colour will so well describe his complexion, which was of a parchment hue, and of the same leathery texture. Small slits of eyes, a hooked nose, wide mouth with thin lips, hollow cheeks, and a broad and high forehead; that was the facial appearance of my learned friend, the antiquary. I met him near Birmingham, whither he had been to purchase a bundle of old books, with which he was wearily toiling onward to his village home. He sat by the roadside on a grassy bank with his treasures, girt about by a strong leathern strap, by his side. Being a very hot day, the old man had a large red bandana handkerchief in his hand, with which he patted his perspiring face. I asked him, by way of obtaining an opening for a conversation, if I was on the right road to Coventry, whereupon he informed me that he was walking to Meridew, a distance of twelve miles along the road to Coventry, and if I would give him a lift he would act as guide. I obliged the old man, although I knew the road perfectly, having travelled the district before, but, as I love companionship, I thought it a good opportunity for indulging my hobby.