It was past midnight when the merry party returned to the hotel, where mothers sat up to scold their daughters for such an escapade. Youth laughed at all such corrections, however, and then ran off to bed.
In the morning, no young member of the party was willing to get up and start on the road. Hence it was quite late when they got into the cars preparatory to touring again. Just as the signal was given for Jimmy to lead off, an old man ran up, wildly gesticulating.
“E’en hear’n say you folks like odd bits of old stuff. Coom with me and see my shaup daown in the lane.”
Mr. Fabian conversed with the old man for a few moments, and then asked the others if they cared to stop at the shop as they drove past. Everyone agreed, and the old man was asked to step up on the car and direct them where to go.
Finally they drew up before a place in the outskirts of Bristol—a veritable picture of a place. The one-story structure had its walls panelled in sections and the plaster of these sections was white-washed. The usual thatched roof and dormer windows topped the building, but the roses rambled so riotously up over the thatch, and greenish moss grew in spots, that the old place had a beautiful appearance.
Mr. Maxton rubbed his hands in delight, as he stood by and heard the cries of admiration from his visitors. He loved the old place and took a great pride in keeping it looking well.
Then they went indoors, leaving Jimmy and Mr. Alexander in the cars. The front room was crowded full of old china, lamps, silver and other curios, but Mr. Maxton led them directly to the rear room where the furniture was kept.
“Here be a rale Windsor chair you’ll like,” said he, moving forward a piece of furniture.
“My, Fabian! It must date back as early as 1690 to 1700,” whispered Mr. Ashby, as he examined the crown center of the flat head-rest that finished the comb-top at the back.
“It has the twisted upright rails at the back, and the turned rungs that go with that period,” admitted Mr. Fabian, down upon his knees to examine the chair.