Cinder Path Tales

6 CINDER-PATH TALES A clock was striking sixwhen we stopped before the door of the "Traveller's Rest," and I slid off the seat on to the frozen ground,my legs so stiff that I could scarcely walk. It was a large white house, with green blinds, and a piazza with tall white pil­ lars in front. Cosy enough it seemed, too, with its lighted windows and its smell of hot meats; while from the bar in the corner came the sounds of a jingling piano and a good voice singing an OldCountry ballad of " Jack and his Susan." I found the inside of the house ascomfort­ able as the outside looked inviting, and it was after a better dinner thanI had eaten for many daysthat Isat with Hacking in a little parlor off the bar, my feet toasting at a coal fire, taking a comforting pipe and an occa­ sional sipof the "necessary." It did not take me long to find that Hack­ ing was most interested in sporting matters, and our conversation gradually harked back to the cracks of the cinder-path who were in their glory whenhe left Lancashire, ten years before. A little information I gave him about old friends, and then wetalked of those who had taken their places, Hacking bewail­ ing the fact that there were none like the " good uns "of the past. " How many men are there to-day," he