It Is Precisely The Same In The One I Am About
To Relate, One I Came Upon A Few Years
Ago - just how many I wish not to
say, nor just where it happened except that it was in the
West country;
and for the real names of people and places I have substituted
fictitious ones. For this too, like the last, is a true story. The
reader on finishing it will perhaps blush to think it true, but apart
from the moral aspect of the case it is, psychologically, a singularly
interesting one.
One summer day I travelled by a public conveyance to Pollhampton, a
small rustic market town several miles distant from the nearest
railroad. My destination was not the town itself, but a lonely heath-
grown hill five miles further on, where I wished to find something that
grew and blossomed on it, and my first object on arrival was to secure
a riding horse or horse and trap to carry me there. I was told at once
that it was useless to look for such a thing, as it was market day and
everybody was fully occupied. That it was market day I already knew
very well, as the two or three main streets and wide market-place in
the middle of the town were full of sheep and cows and pigs and people
running about and much noise of shoutings and barking dogs. However,
the strange object of the strange-looking stranger in coming to the
town, interested some of the wild native boys, and they rushed about to
tell it, and in less than five minutes a nice neat-looking middle-aged
man stood at my elbow and said he had a good horse and trap and for
seven-and-sixpence would drive me to the hill, help me there to find
what I wanted, and bring me back in time to catch the conveyance.
Accordingly in a few minutes we were speeding out of the town drawn by
a fast-trotting horse.
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