The road makes an abrupt turn to the left to enter the city of Bangor. The grim stone walls on either side of the forbidding edifice in front do not represent a prison, workhouse, or lunatic asylum, but have at present the honour of housing the University College of North Wales, founded in 1884. Years before that date this was the “Penrhyn Arms” hotel, one of the largest and best on the road, with great resources in the way of reception-rooms, extensive private suites for the considerable personages who travelled to and from Ireland, and stabling for over a hundred horses. A private inclined road leads up to the pillared doorway, and an arch over the public road conducted in those days to the hotel farm and dairy. It is frequently found to be too low to permit the passage of hay and straw waggons and other mountainous loads, with the result that the so-called “private” road is used, and is almost as public as the other. The best side of the building is turned away from the road, and looks from amid wide lawns and beautiful gardens across the Menai Straits to Beaumaris. Here they show with reverence the stump of a fir tree planted by the Princess Victoria in 1832. The tree died in 1899. The interior of the house is, of course, divided into class-rooms, lecture-rooms, and the like. The kitchen and scullery are now a library, and students now swat where fat cooks once sweated before roasting fires. The change is one that would have horrified Colonel Birch-Reynardson, equally with the coachmen and guards of the Holyhead Mail that used to change here in the palmy days of Host Bicknell.

The Colonel, as an amateur whip, often drove the Mail between Oswestry and Bangor, and tells how others occasionally did the same. There was, for example, one who took a glass or a bottle too much at the “Owen Glendower” at Corwen, and wrought havoc with the mail and other things along the road, with the result that the bags were too late for the packet at Holyhead, and the Post Office authorities heard of it. Result number two was that horse proprietors were severely admonished not to allow any one but the authorised coachman to drive. They did so all the same, but the reins were prudently made to change hands when nearing “the change.” Charlie Harper, who about that time had been promoted from the slower Chester and Holyhead to the fast direct Holyhead Mail, had resigned his ribbons one day to the Colonel, but took them over on nearing Bangor. The Colonel, however, good-humouredly took Bicknell to task for giving him the sack. The hotel-keeper was sorry, but no amateur could drive the Mail again after the wigging he had got from the Post Office.

Some little while later, one stormy evening, the Colonel was on the Mail at Bangor. Harper, at the end of his day’s work, got down and went home; the new team was put to, and the Mail stood waiting for Jack Williams, the coachman who was to take it across the bridge and on to Holyhead. Five minutes passed; time was up, and no coachman appeared. “What the devil are you waiting for?” asked Hodgson, the guard, coming back from the Post Office with the bags. “Where is Jack Williams?”

No one had seen Jack Williams, and no one seemed to know whether he was dead or alive. At last one of the horsekeepers seemed to remember all of a sudden that Williams had been summoned to attend a magistrates’ meeting on the other side of the Menai Bridge; that Harper was to have taken the Mail over the bridge, and Williams to get up at the public-house where the worthy beaks who had summoned him were to hold their conclave. “Yess, inteet, I remember it wass summoned to attend the magistrates’ meeting” (it standing, of course, for ‘Chack’ Williams).

“Now then,” said Hodgson, growing impatient, “we can’t wait here all day; somebody must drive. Mr. Reynardson, will you be so good? We shall be late for the packet.”

“I don’t care,” said the Colonel, “whether you are late or not; I am thankful to say I am not going to cross such a day as this. Jump up and drive yourself, and I’ll take charge of your bags. Bicknell has said that I am not to drive his horses, and if you take root here I don’t care; I’ll not touch them.” “Well, sir, we shall be late for the packet if you won’t,” said Hodgson. “I don’t care,” he replied, “I dare say I shall be able to get to where I am going in time for dinner, or at all events before bedtime, so I’ll have nothing to do with either the mail or Mr. Bicknell’s horses, and if the mail stays here all night it’s nothing to me.” “Now, Hodgson,” said Bicknell, who just then appeared at the door, “what’s the Mail standing there for.” “That’s just what I should like to know,” answered Hodgson; “but the Mail can’t go, sir, without some one to drive it. Jack Williams is not to be found, Charlie Harper has gone home long ago, and Mr. Reynardson says you said he was not to drive your horses any more, and he won’t have anything to do with them; so what’s to be done I don’t know. We shall be late for the packet, and then you know there’ll be a row again with the Post Office people.”

Things seemed to be in something of a fix, and Hodgson, though in a fuss to be off, was rather enjoying the joke, which began to be a serious one; for there seemed to be no chance of any one to drive. It was blowing great guns, and the Menai Bridge would be rocking about like a cradle, and the team of greys were not the handiest in the world, if they had not got up the right way in the morning, and if things went a little wrong.

“Well,” said Bicknell, “this won’t do. Will you drive them, Mr. Reynardson, till you find Jack Williams on the other side of the bridge?” “No,” said the obstinate Colonel, “you may drive them yourself, if you like; I won’t touch them.” Things looked bad; Bicknell was no coachman; Hodgson said he could not, and Reynardson that he would not, drive, and there seemed none of the horsekeepers competent to perform the feat. So at last, Mr. Bicknell, putting on his most affable face, said: “Mr. Reynardson, Sir, will you be so kind as to take them across the bridge? I shall be very much obliged to you if you will.” “Oh! Oh!” said the pacified amateur, “if you are going to be obliged, or anything of that kind, I don’t mind obliging you, Mr. Bicknell,” and the thing was done.