CHAPTER III

_Which concerns itself with a hay-cart, and a belligerent Waggoner_

It was upon a certain August morning that George Bellew shook the dust
of London from his feet, and, leaving Chance, or Destiny to direct him,
followed a hap-hazard course, careless alike of how, or when, or where;
sighing as often, and as heavily as he considered his heart-broken
condition required,--which was very often, and very heavily,--yet
heeding, for all that, the glory of the sun, and the stir and bustle of
the streets about him.

Thus it was that, being careless of his ultimate destination, Fortune
condescended to take him under her wing, (if she has one), and guided
his steps across the river, into the lovely land of Kent,--that county
of gentle hills, and broad, pleasant valleys, of winding streams and
shady woods, of rich meadows and smiling pastures, of grassy lanes and
fragrant hedgerows,--that most delightful land which has been called,
and very rightly, "The Garden of England."

It was thus, as has been said, upon a fair August morning, that Bellew
set out on what he termed "a walking tour." The reservation is necessary
because Bellew's idea of a walking-tour is original, and quaint. He
began very well, for Bellew,--in the morning he walked very nearly five
miles, and, in the afternoon, before he was discovered, he accomplished
ten more on a hay-cart that happened to be going in his direction.