Oi, iss, zur. You do git into the turnpike dreckly (directly), and
then the roads sa smoove as a booard."

"And is there a publichouse anywhere near?"

"Iss, zur, 'bout three mile on thurs a kiddley-wink (beershop) that do
belong to Tommy Dain, he as can raise the devil, you do knaw, zur."

This helped me to decide what to do. Wadebridge was a little seaport,
and there I should perhaps get on board a vessel that would take me
right away from home. Then, perhaps, when I was away on the rolling
seas, I should forget my disappointments, and find ease from the
gnawing, bitter hatred that had gripped my heart.

Inspired by this thought I hurried on rapidly. I was beginning to feel
hungry and faint after my long walk, so was glad to know of the inn,
even although Tommy Dean, the landlord, possessed such powers.

Arrived there I had a good breakfast of ham and eggs, after which Tommy
brought out a tankard of ale. I was about to drink it when I
reflected. But for drink my father's horse would not have been
frightened and I should not now have been fatherless. But for drink I
should not now be homeless and friendless. Drink had deprived me of my
dearest, best friend, and I would have none of it. So much did this
impress me at the time that I made up my mind never to touch intoxicant
again; at any rate, until I saw sufficient reason to alter my mind.

After breakfast I felt that the twelve miles which lay before me were
as nothing. In three hours, if nothing happened, I should be in
Wadebridge.

Nothing of importance happened on the way. Milestone after milestone I
passed wearily. I had little object or hope in life. I had sacrificed
my all for the sake of others, and it brought me no happiness. When I
reached Wadebridge my interest was somewhat aroused. My knowledge of
towns was very limited. I had only paid two or three visits to our
county towns, which are, to say the least of them, small and to some
extent uninteresting. Twice I had been to Truro, and once to Falmouth;
thus when I came to Wadebridge, I was somewhat excited. Such a thing
seems strange to me now, when I remember the facts of the case.
Wadebridge was only a little village composed of one street, which led
down to the river Wade, over which a bridge is built, hence the name of
the port.

There is a curious story among the Wadebridge people as to how their
bridge was built. Many years ago there was a ferry across the river,
but it was t