12, and 12.30, the twelve o'clock train
will leave at 12.30, and the 12.30 at 1. The authorities endeavour to
have a train in hand at the end of the day, and I fancy are generally
successful in carrying out their intentions. But between London and
Teapot Bay there are many slippery carriages, which stop at various
Junctions, and refuse to go any further in the required direction. When
this happens, the weary traveller has to descend, cross a platform, and
try another line. If he is a man of determination, and is not easily
disheartened, nine times out of ten he ultimately reaches Teapot Bay,
where his arrival causes more astonishment than gratification.

When I got to this "rising watering-place" the other day, I found an
omnibus in waiting, ready to carry me to the town, which is some little
distance from the station. We travelled by circular tour, which included
a trot through many of the fields of my boyhood, now, alas! potatoless,
and covered with weeds! In one of these fields I noticed a canvas booth,
three or four flags, and a group of about twenty spectators, inspecting
a gentleman in a scarlet coat, mounted on rather a large-boned horse.

"They still have a country-fair here?" I suggested to the person who had
collected my sixpence.

"That isn't a fair, Sir--them's the Races," was the reply.

"Not very well attended, I fear?" I observed.

[Illustration: A Circular Tour.]

"Better than they was last year--why the whole town has gone to see them
this time."

A little later we reached the principal inn of the place, which was
described in a local Handbook as "an old-established hotel, but
comfortable." Rather, to my annoyance (as I was anxious to preserve my
_incognito_), I was received by the landlord with respectful cordiality.
"Glad you have honoured us, Sir--proud of your presence."

I made a sign to him not to betray me, and asked for my room.

"Well, Sir, we must put _you_ into the Rotunda."

Again by a gesture inviting silence as to my identity, I mounted a
flight of stairs, and found myself in a room that once, I think, must
have been entirely arbour. Much of the arbour still remained, but a
large slice had been partitioned off affording space for a
chimney-piece, two chairs, a washstand and a bed. By opening a window
which reached to the ground, I found myself on a balcony covered in with
creepers, and beneath which was a gas-lamp labelled "Hotel Tap." In
front of me was a field with the founda