In Which Mr Headstone Is Taken For A Ride

On arriving in Salisbury Mr Headstone made his way to the coach-office to secure a place to London. Being obliged to wait an hour before the coach's arrival, he walked into the bar of the inn and made himself comfortable, which in his mind naturally required the provision of strong liquor. Although it threatened to reduce his purse (which Mrs Lupin had generously filled with copper and silver), Mr Headstone marked each quarter of the hour with a brandy and water, and when the coach came round at last, with 'London' blazoned in letters of gold upon the hind boot, the pedagogue staggered out into the yard and took his seat upon the box.

The coach was none of your steady-going, yokel coaches, but a swaggering, rakish, dissipated London coach. It rattled noisily through the streets, making everything get out of its way; and spun along the open country-road, racing past hedges, gates, and trees; past cottages and barns; past streams, in which the cattle cooled their feet; past paddock-fences, farms and rick-yards; past churches, with rustic burial-grounds about them.

Mr Headstone, under the influence of the brandy and hot sun, felt inclined to doze, but found the coachman's shoulder an inconvenient pillow on which to rest his head, on account of the fact that that portion of that gentleman's anatomy was connected to the arm which was connected to the hand that flourished the whip over the heads of the four greys. The coach, being obliged to follow the road through all its dips and hollows and twists and turns, gave a very good imitation of a ship being tossed about on the high seas, and Mr Headstone, being no very good sailor, felt the worse for the comparison.

In time the country roads were left behind and the way ahead became a continuous street; and so on they rode, past market-gardens, rows of houses, villas, crescents, terraces, and squares; past brick and mortar in its every shape; and in among the rattling pavements, where a jaunty-seat upon a coach is not so easy to preserve. Down countless turnings, and through countless mazy ways, until the four panting greys drew up inside the yard of The Saracen's Head in Snow Hill in the great city of London, and there relinquished the charge of their passengers in exchange for a liberal quantity of fresh hay and a nosebag of barley.

Which Contains A Sentimental Farewell

Having had his mental faculties returned to him by the fortunate circumstance of being struck on the head by a weathered wooden sign, Mr Headstone resolved to return to London at once, or, at least, as soon as the apothecary had done wrapping his crown with brown paper soaked in vinegar. The village folk gathered on the green to bid the pedagogue farewell and to present him with small tokens of remembrance as a mark of his brief sojourn amongst them. Mrs Lupin wrapped these simple geegaws - straw poppets, stones from the village stream, wooden spoons, balls of yarn -  into a red spotted handkerchief, which she then knotted onto the end of a length of ash for the greater convenience of conveyance.

The emotions at the moment of parting were keenly felt by the villagers, whose lives had been briefly enriched by the appearance of the noble stranger in their midst. Mr Headstone, having no memory of the period between the two instances when he had received a blow to the head, was less affected by the occasion, and made his farewells as he might to any group of strangers; which conduct made Mrs Lupin shed more tears than she might have otherwise done. On passing the first bend in the road, Mr Headstone - not being of a sentimental nature - tossed the contents of his knapsack into the ditch, for it was a heavy burden and the ash chafed his shoulder. And yet, before anyone accuses the pedagogue of having a hard heart, let it be recorded that he kept the landlady's gift of the spotted handkerchief, which was either a sign that he reserved some small sentiment for the good woman, or that he was in need of something to wipe the perspiration from his face.

In Which Mr Headstone Is Returned To His Former Character

And so began a brief rustic idyll in the life of Mr Bradley Headstone. The gentleman in question - having suffered a blow to the head that had rendered him senseless and made him as unaware of his origins as anyone who had just but recently made his acquaintance - now roamed about the village and its environs in a state of perfect contentment. Slowly he learnt about the simple country ways: how to tell the difference between stinging nettles and dock leaves; which pasture the farmer's bull was set to graze in and what speed was required to outrun him; why one should never when picking buttercups present one's posterior to a grazing goat; which berries were inclined to give stomach cramps; and many other lessons of an instructive character. There was even a prospect of future employment for one of the local farmers declared outright that if ever he needed a scarecrow for his north field, then he need look no further than under the sign of The Blue Dragon.

It was indeed under this very sign, which for many years had swung and creaked in summer storms and autumn gales, that Mr Headstone was reposing one hot afternoon with a mug of cider for company when - with no advance notice of its intentions - that emblem of the house finally gave up the ghost and slipped the weakened moorings of its iron hinges to plummet directly earthwards. Mr Headstone had at that very moment tilted back his head to take a final draught, and, with his eyes thus directed heavenward, he was given a clear view of the descending board with just the requisite amount of time to register its approach without -alas- a sufficient subsequent period to avoid it. It was a sturdy sign made from sturdy English oak and when it struck the surprised pedagogue on the forehead it made a sturdy sound not at all dissimilar to that of a cricket ball being struck by a willow bat.

Mrs Lupin, who had observed the incident from an upper window of the inn, rushed downstairs to the bar for a jug of cold water in order to revive the unfortunate gentleman from the second stupor he had fallen into in the space of a quarter. Having performed this kindly service, she told the pot boy to run and fetch the apothecary. By the time that worthy medical man arrived - for being wanted again he was naturally not to be found at home - Mr Headstone had recovered enough to be able to sit up and engage in conversation, the main purport of which was to announce his immediate return to London, from which place he had been absent for longer than was conducive to the preservation of a gentleman's reputation.