--and
that was--that Janatone went there to school.

Chapter 3.XCIX.

In the whole catalogue of those whiffling vexations which come
puffing across a man's canvass, there is not one of a more teasing
and tormenting nature, than this particular one which I am going to
describe--and for which (unless you travel with an avance-courier, which
numbers do in order to prevent it)--there is no help: and it is this.

That be you in never so kindly a propensity to sleep--though you are
passing perhaps through the finest country--upon the best roads, and in
the easiest carriage for doing it in the world--nay, was you sure you
could sleep fifty miles straight forwards, without once opening your
eyes--nay, what is more, was you as demonstratively satisfied as you can
be of any truth in Euclid, that you should upon all accounts be full as
well asleep as awake--nay, perhaps better--Yet the incessant returns of
paying for the horses at every stage,--with the necessity thereupon of
putting your hand into your pocket, and counting out from thence three
livres fifteen sous (sous by sous), puts an end to so much of the
project, that you cannot execute above six miles of it (or supposing it
is a post and a half, that is but nine)--were it to save your soul from
destruction.

--I'll be even with 'em, quoth I, for I'll put the precise sum into a
piece of paper, and hold it ready in my hand all the way: 'Now I shall
have nothing to do,' said I (composing myself to rest), 'but to drop
this gently into the post-boy's hat, and not say a word.'--Then there
wants two sous more to drink--or there is a twelve sous piece of Louis
XIV. which will not pass--or a livre and some odd liards to be brought
over from the last stage, which Monsieur had forgot; which altercations
(as a man cannot dispute very well asleep) rouse him: still is sweet
sleep retrievable; and still might the flesh weigh down the spirit, and
recover itself of these blows--but then, by heaven! you have paid but
for a single post--whereas 'tis a post and a half; and this obliges
you to pull out your book of post-roads, the print of which is so very
small, it forces you to open your eyes, whether you will or no: Then
Monsieur le Cure offers you a pinch of snuff--or a poor soldier shews
you his leg--or a shaveling his box--or the priestesse of the cistern
will water your wheels--they do not want it--but she swears by her
priesthood (throwing it back) that they do:--then you have a