Bedford.—The Cock. “Life in London, sir; I can’t describe it better. Life in Keate-street, Whitechapel.” Fifteen beds.
Irchester.—“I don’t mind the name. A most particular place. You must go to bed by nine, or be locked out. It’s hard and honest; clean and rough.” Six beds.
Wellingborough.—“A private house. Smith or Jones, I know, or some common name. Ducker, the soldier that was shot in the Park by Annette Meyers, lived there. I worked him there myself, and everybody bought. I did the gun-trick, sir, (had great success.) It’s an inferior lodging place. They’re in no ways particular, not they, who they admit or how they dos. At a fair-time, the goings on is anything but fair.” Ten beds.
Northampton.—“Mrs. Bull’s. Comfortable and decent. She takes in the Dispatch, to oblige her travellers. It’s a nice, quiet, Sunday house.” Twelve beds.
Market Harborough.—“There’s a good lady there gives away tracts and half-a-crown. A private house is the traveller’s house, and some new name. Middling accommodation.” Nine beds.
Lutterworth.—“A private house, and I’ll go there no more. Very queer. Not the least comfort or decency. They’re above their business, I think, and take in too many, and care nothing what the travellers do. Higgledy-piggledy together.” Ten beds.
Leicester.—“The Rookery. Rosemary-lane over again, sir, especially at Black Jack’s. He shakes up the beds with a pitchfork, and brings in straw if there’s more than can possibly be crammed into the beds. He’s a fighting man, and if you say a word, he wants to fight you.” Twelve beds.
Hinckley.—“The Tea-board. Comfortable.” Eight beds.
Nuneaton.—“The same style as Hinckley. A private house.” Eight beds.
Coventry.—“Deserves to be sent further. Bill Cooper’s. A dilapidated place, and no sleep, for there’s armies of bugs,—great black fellows. I call it the Sikh war there, and they’re called Sikhs there, or Sicks there, is the vermin; but I’m sick of all such places. They’re not particular there,—certainly not.” Twenty beds.