We stop at Birtley. I trust I shall never stop there again.
“No, there is no stabling here;” thus spoke a slattern whom I addressed.
“Water t’ hosses. Dost think I’d give thee water? Go and look for t’ well.”
Some drunken miners crowded round.
“For two pins,” one said, “I’d kick the horses. Smartly I would.”
He thought better of it, however.
We pushed on in hopes of getting stabling and perhaps a little civility.
We pushed on right through Gateshead and Newcastle, and three miles farther to the pleasant village of Gosforth, before we found either.
Gosforth is a village of villas, and here we have found all the comfort a gipsy’s heart could desire.
We are encamped on a breezy common in sight of the Cheviot Hills, and here we will lie till Tuesday morning for the sake of our horses if not ourselves.