The baths take such a little time, not over six or seven minutes for them each day, and every third day skipped, that there is a good deal of time left on the hands of the people here; and those who can’t play tennis or bowl, and don’t want to spend the whole time in the pavilion listening to the music, go about in bath-chairs, which, so far as I can see, are just as important as the baths.  I don’t know whether you ever saw a bath-chair, madam, but it’s a comfortable little cab on three wheels, pulled by a man.  They take people everywhere, and all the streets are full of them.

As soon as I saw these nice little traps I said to Jone, “Now this is the very thing for you.  It hurts you to walk far, and you want to see all over this town, and one of these bath-chairs will take you into lots of places where you couldn’t go in a carriage.”

“Take me!” said Jone.  “I should say not.  You don’t catch me being hauled about in one of those things as if I was in a sort of wheelbarrow ambulance being taken to the hospital, with you walking along by my side like a trained nurse.  No, indeed!  I have not gone so far as that yet.”

I told him this was all stuff and nonsense, and if he wanted to get the good out of Buxton he’d better go about and see it, and he couldn’t go about if he didn’t take a bath-chair; but all he said to that was, that he could see it without going about, and he was satisfied.  But that didn’t count anything with me, for the trouble with Jone is, that he’s too easy satisfied.

It’s true that there is a lot to be seen in Buxton without going about.  The Slopes are just across the street from the hotel, and when it doesn’t happen to be raining we can go and sit there on a bench and see lively times enough.  People are being trundled about in their bath-chairs in every direction; there is always a crowd at St. Ann’s well, where the pump is; all sorts of cabs and carts are being driven up and down just as fast as they can go, for the streets are as smooth as floors, and in the morning and evening there are about half a dozen coaches with four horses, and drivers and horn-blowers in red coats, the horses prancing and whips cracking as they start out for country trips or come back again.  And as for the people on foot, they just swarm like bees, and rain makes no difference, except that then they wear mackintoshes, and when it’s fine they don’t.  Some of these people step along as brisk as if they hadn’t anything the matter with them, but a good many of them help out their legs with canes and crutches.  I begin to think I can tell how long a man has been at Buxton by the number of sticks he uses.