About thirty yards off the “Old Carved Lion” stood a handpost, with its four white arms pointing down the four cross roads.
Some few years before there had been only one handpost within four miles of this spot, and that so defaced and overgrown with moss that it was impossible to decipher a letter.
But fortunately, a nobleman who lived in the neighbourhood happened to lose his way among the dark woods which encircled it, and did not arrive home till his soup was ice, his fish rags, and his sirloin of beef a cinder.
An order was consequently passed by the bench that handposts should be erected in all the parishes under their surveillance at every cross road and turning—the expenses to be defrayed by the funds of the respective parishes.
In rural districts, before any improvements are permitted to be made or nuisances removed, a human being must die or a person of note be inconvenienced.
In the days of the defaced handpost, before railways were in vogue, the “Old Carved Lion” had been a large coaching hotel, furnished with an unbounded amount of accommodation for man and beast.
At the time we make its acquaintance the landlord had turned small farmer, and had aggrandised his stables into barns, and degraded his spare bedrooms into lumber garrets.
However, the good, dry skittle ground still remained, and the hum of voices and incessant rumbling from within proved that this scientific game did not lack supporters.
It was a low cattle-shed kind of place, with benches down the walls and at either end.
On the opposite corners were two small tables, fitted with mugs and pipes.