With cushions and rugs, our broad coupé makes a most comfortable lounge, which I take advantage of. Here one can read, can muse, can dream, in a delightfully lethargic frame of mind. Who would be a dweller in dusty cities, I wonder, who can enjoy life like this?
Foley—my valet—went on ahead on the Ranelagh Club (our caravan tricycle) to spy out the land at Thatcham and look for quarters for the night.
There were certain objections to the inn he chose, however; so, having settled the Wanderer on the broad village green, I went to another inn.
A blackish-skinned, burly, broad-shouldered fellow answered my summons. Gruff he was in the extreme.
“I want stabling for the night for one horse, and also a bed for my driver.” This from me.
“Humph! I’ll go and see,” was the reply.
“Very well; I’ll wait.”
The fellow returned soon.
“Where be goin’ to sleep yourse’f?”
This he asked in a tone of lazy insolence.