[Illustration:  Everything comes to him who waits.]

It was now morning, and the old abbey stood out in grand outline against the glorious scarlet of the setting sun.  Entering an inn, I called for refreshment for man and beast, and, having authority for considering myself qualified to act as representative of both, consumed the double portion.  Thinking about the whiskey I had just discussed, as I rode along, I came to a milestone, standing on its head, and a sign-post in the last stage of hopeless intoxication.  It was here that a police constable turned his lantern upon me with a pertinacity that apparently was calculated to challenge observation.  Annoyed, but not altogether surprised, I declared my opinion that it was “all right,” and fell asleep.  When I awoke, I found that I had travelled some hundreds of miles, and, strange to say, my horse was as good as when it had started.  From what I could gather from the signs on the road (I have been accustomed to Forestry from my earliest childhood), it seemed to me that, while I was slumbering, I must have passed Macclesfield, Ramsgate, Richmond (both in Surrey and in Yorkshire), and was now close to the weirdest spot in all phantom-populated Wiltshire—­a place in its rugged desolation suggestive of the Boundless Prairies and BUFFALO BILL—­Wild-Westbury!  Greatly fatigued, I entered a second inn, and enjoyed a hearty meal, which was also a simple one.  I am a liquidarian, and take no animal or vegetable food, and have not tasted fish for nearly a quarter of a century.

When I wished to continue my journey to Bath, I found Cats’-meat so disinclined to move, that I thought the best thing to do in the interest of progress, was to carry him myself.  He was very light—­so light that I imagined the automatic weighing-machine must have been out of order when I tested it.  Almost in a trance I walked along, until, stumbling, I fell, and dropped Cats’-meat into a well.  And then another strange thing happened.  The horse with its jet-black tail and mane, emerged from the water as white as snow!  Apparently annoyed at the treatment to which it had been accidentally subjected, it fled away, and I lost sight of it amongst the hills that overlook Wild-Westbury.  And then the strangest thing of all happened, and has been happening ever since!

[Illustration:  Interesting to the Medical Profession.  “The Annual Indigest.”]

In clear weather, on the side of one of these hills, Cat’s-meat, in the habit as he stood when he left the well on that fatal day, may be seen patiently waiting until the time shall arrive when he shall receive a coat of blacking, a companion steed to share with him his labours, and a hearse!  I am not the only person who has seen him thus.  The spectre (if it be a spectre) is known for miles around, and has been watched by thousands.  Nay, more.  On occasions of great rejoicing, when merry-making has been the order of the day or night, several Cats’-meats have appeared to the carousing watchers strangely blended together.  Speaking for myself, if I have seen one I have seen half-a-dozen—­nay, more—­with hills to match!  And those who do not believe me can continue the journey I once commenced, and (after I have wished them a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year) proceed to—­Bath!