lines, but the
roadway improved and was wider and free from abrupt turns and twists.
We congratulated ourselves that at last we had got clear of town, but
we had reckoned beyond our better judgment, for we had forgotten that
we had been told that Brentford was the most awful death-trap that
the world has known for automobilists, cyclists, and indeed
foot-passers as well. We should have kept a little of our nerve by
us, for we needed it when we got shut in between a brewer's dray, an
omnibus, and an electric tram-car in Brentford's sixteen-foot "main
road." It was like an interminable canyon, gloomy, damp, and
dangerous for all living things which passed its portals, this main
street of Brentford. For some miles, apparently, this same congestion
of traffic continued, a tram-car ahead and behind you, drays, trucks,
and carts all around you, and fool butchers' cart and milk cart
drivers turning unexpected corners to the likely death of you and
themselves. Here is an automobile reform which might well attract the
attention of the authorities in England. The automobile has as much
right to be a road user as any other form of traffic, and, if the
automobile is to be regulated as to its speed and progress, it is
about time that the same regulations were applied also to other
classes of traffic.

We finally got out of Brentford and came to Low, where suburban
improvement has gone to widen the roadway and put the two lines of
tramway in the middle, allowing a free passage on either side. The
wood pavement, which we had followed almost constantly since leaving
London, soon disappeared, and, finally, so did the tramway. After
perhaps fifteen miles we were at last approaching open country; at
least Suburbia and perambulators had been left behind; and
truck-gardens and market-wagons, often with sleepy drivers, had
entered on the scene. Here was a new danger, but not so terrible as
those we had left behind, and the poor, docile horse usually had
sense enough to draw aside and let us pass, even if the beer-drowsy
driver had not.

We soon reached the top of Hounslow Heath, but there was scarcely a
suggestion of the former romantic aspect which we had always
connected with it.

We made inquiries and learned that there was one old neighbouring
inn, the "Green Man," lying between the Bath and Exeter roads, which
was a true relic of the past, and musty with the traditions of
turnpike travellers and highwaymen of old. We found the "Gre