erilous, for not only was there
danger from accident on these poorly constructed, unlighted
thoroughfares but there was in addition the menace from highwaymen in
the less populated districts. It took a great while to make a journey of
any length, too, and to sleep in a coach where one was cramped, jolted,
and either none too warm or miserably hot was not an unalloyed delight,
as I am sure you will agree."

"I had not thought of any of those things," owned Stephen. "It just
seemed on the face of it as if it must have been fun to ride on top of
the coach and see the sights as one does from the Fifth Avenue or London
buses."

"Oh," laughed his father, "a few hours' adventure like that is quite a
different affair from making a stagecoach journey. I grant that to ride
on a clear morning through the streets of a great city, or bowl along
the velvet roads of a picturesque countryside as one frequently does in
England is very delightful. To read Dickens' descriptions of journeys up
to London is to long to don a greatcoat, wind a muffler about one's
neck, and amid the cracking of whips and tooting of horns dash off
behind the horses for the fairy city his pen portrays. Who would not
have liked, for example, to set out with Mr. Pickwick for the Christmas
holidays at Dingley Dell? Why, you cannot even read about it without
seeing in your mind's eye the envious throng that crowded the inn yard
and watched while the stableboys loosed the heads of the leaders and the
steeds galloped away! And those marvelous country taverns he depicts,
with their roaring fires, their steaming roasts, their big platters of
fowl deluged in gravy, and their hot puddings! Was there ever writer
more tantalizing?"

"You will have us all hungry in two minutes, Dad, if you keep on,"
exclaimed Stephen.

"And Dickens has us hungry, too," declared Mr. Tolman. "Nevertheless we
must not forget that he paints but one side of the picture. He fails to
emphasize what such a trip meant when the weather was cold and stormy,
and those outside the coach as well as those inside it were often
drenched with rain or snow, and well-nigh frozen to death. Moreover,
while it is true that many of the inns along the turnpike were clean and
furnished excellent fare, there were others that could boast nothing
better than chilly rooms, damp beds, and only a very limited
hospitality."

"I believe you are a realist, Henry," said his wife playfully.

Her husband laughed.

"Nor