"Fanny! you have gained the day. What, ho! my kingdom for a 'Bradshaw'!" And hunting about among a débris of newspapers, railway-books, puffing tradesmen's circulars, odd numbers of magazines, and other specimens of that miscellaneous literature which spreads, nettle-fashion, in all the available corners of a bachelor's apartment, Mr. Percival Wylde at length lighted upon the desired periodical, and, by this, put a stop to the premature expectations and groundless excitement of "Mac," who, with eyes of the keenest speculation, had been following his master's search, evidently anticipating that it would terminate in rats—if not cats.
But it ended in a less lively subject; to wit—(not that there was any wit in it) "Bradshaw." "Now, let me see!" murmured the undergraduate, as he turned over the leaves of the bewildering book, and consulted its still more bewildering index:
"Oxford, W. S. 10; Gt. W. 53•57; L. and N. W. 75; O. W. and W.—the Old Worse and Worse,—77; Shr. and Ches. 86. Mid. Remarkably explicit and clear, certainly. Oh, here it is! Down-train—London. Express leaves at five fifteen; Bletchley, six twenty-five; all right so far! only, this blackguard Junction—Oh, I see! departs from Bletchley at six-twenty-five; arrives at Oxford—why, confound it! it never arrives at Oxford at all! Oh! here 's another train at seven fifteen; reaches Oxford—at eight thirty. That's the ticket! that will just land me in time for Gates. So, to Town I go, and have a chat with Fanny. When a man 's æger, there 's nothing like going to London in search of first-rate advice. After all, Love 's the best physician!"
Having arrived at this comforting decision, Mr. Percival Wylde was not long in putting it in execution.
