Sleep was not much in my way that night. I rose almost as early as Boots
himself--breakfasted--then sat at the coffee-room window looking out
anxiously for the two coaches.

Nobody seemed to agree which would pass first. Each of the inn servants
of whom I inquired made it a matter of partisanship, and backed his
favorite coach with the most consummate assurance. At last, I heard the
guard's horn and the clatter of the horses' hoofs. Up drove a coach--I
looked out cautiously--it was the Humming Bee. Three outside places were
vacant; one behind the coachman; two on the dickey. The first was taken
immediately by a farmer, the second---to my unspeakable disgust and
terror--was secured by the inevitable Bow Street runner; who, as soon as
h e was up, helped the weakly Screw into the third place, by his side.
They were going to Crickgelly; not a doubt of it, now.

I grew mad with impatience for the arrival of the Red Cross Knight.
Half-an-hour passed--forty minutes--and then I heard another horn and
another clatter--and the Red Cross Knight rattled up to the hotel door
at full speed. What if there should be no vacant place for me! I ran
to the door with a sinking heart. Outside, the coach was declared to be
full.

"There is one inside place," said the waiter, "if you don't mind paying
the--"

Before he could say the rest, I was occupying that one inside place. I
remember nothing of the journey from the time we left the hotel door,
except that it was fearfully long. At some hour of the day with which I
was not acquainted (for my watch had stopped for want of winding up), I
was set down in a clean little street of a prim little town (the name of
which I never thought of asking), and was told that the coach never went
any further.