"Let
the steam-pot hiss till
it's hot;
Give me the speed of the
Tantivy trot."
Coaching Song, by R.E.E. Warburton, Esq.
"Now, sir, time to
get up, if you please. Tally-ho
coach for Leicester'll be
round in half an hour, and
don't wait for nobody." So
spake the boots of the Peacock
Inn Islington, at half-past
two o'clock on the morning
of a day in the early part
of November 183-, giving
Tom at the same time a shake
by the shoulder, and then
putting down a candle; and
carrying off his shoes to
clean.
Tom and his father arrived
in town from Berkshire the
day before, and finding,
on inquiry, that the Birmingham
coaches which ran from the
city did not pass through
Rugby, but deposited their
passengers at Dunchurch,
a village three miles distant
on the main road, where said
passengers had to wait for
the Oxford and Leicester
coach in the evening, or
to take a post-chaise, had
resolved that Tom should
travel down by the Tally-ho,
which diverged from the main
road and passed through Rugby
itself. And as the Tally-ho
was an early coach, they
had driven out to the Peacock
to be on the road.
Tom had never been in London,
and would have liked to have
stopped at the Belle Savage,
where they had been put down
by the Star, just at dusk,
that he might have gone roving
about those endless, mysterious,
gas-lit streets, which, with
their glare and hum and moving
crowds, excited him so that
he couldn't talk even. But
as soon as he found that
the Peacock arrangement would
get him to Rugby by twelve
o'clock in the day, whereas
otherwise he wouldn't be
there till the evening, all
other plans melted away,
his one absorbing aim being
to become a public school-boy
as fast as possible, and
six hours sooner or later
seeming to him of the most
alarming importance.
Tom and his father had alighted
at the Peacock at about seven
in the evening; and having
heard with unfeigned joy
the paternal order, at the
bar, of steaks and oyster-sauce
for supper in half an hour,
and seen his father seated
cozily by the bright fire
in the coffee-room with the
paper in his hand, Tom had
run out to see about him,
had wondered at all the vehicles
passing and repassing, and
had fraternized with the
boots and hostler, from whom
he ascertained that the Tally-ho
was a tip-top goer - ten
miles an hour including stoppages
- and so punctual that all
the road set their clocks
by her.
Then being summoned to supper,
he had regaled himself in
one of the bright little
boxes of the Peacock coffee-room,
on the beef- steak and unlimited
oyster-sauce and brown stout
(tasted then for the first
time - a day to be marked
for ever by Tom with a white
stone); had at first attended
to the excellent advice which
his father was bestowing
on him from over his glass
of steaming brandy-and-water,
and then began nodding, from
the united effects of the
stout, the fire, and the
lecture; till the Squire,
observing Tom's state, and
remembering that it was nearly
nine o'clock, and that the
Tally-ho left at three, sent
the little fellow off to
the chambermaid, with a shake
of the hand (Tom having stipulated
in the morning before starting
that kissing should now cease
between them), and a few
parting words:
"And now, Tom, my boy," said
the Squire, "remember
you are going, at your own
earnest request, to be chucked
into this great school, like
a young bear, with all your
troubles before you - earlier
than we should have sent
you perhaps. If schools are
what they were in my time,
you'll see a great many cruel
blackguard things done, and
hear a deal of foul, bad
talk. But never fear. You
tell the truth, keep a brave
and kind heart, and never
listen to or say anything
you wouldn't have your mother
and sister hear, and you'll
never feel ashamed to come
home, or we to see you."
The allusion to his mother
made Tom feel rather choky,
and he would have liked to
have hugged his father well,
if it hadn't been for the
recent stipulation.
As it was,
he only squeezed his father's
hand, and looked
bravely up and said, "I'll
try, father."
"I
know you will, my boy.
Is your money all safe?
"Yes," said
Tom, diving into one pocket
to
make sure.
"And your keys?" said
the Squire.
"All right," said
Tom, diving into the other
pocket.
"Well,
then, good-night. God bless
you! I'll tell
boots to call you, and be
up to see you off."
Tom was carried off by the
chambermaid in a brown study,
from which he was roused
in a clean little attic,
by that buxom person calling
him a little darling and
kissing him as she left the
room; which indignity he
was too much surprised to
resent. And still thinking
of his father's last words,
and the look with which they
were spoken, he knelt down
and prayed that, come what
might, he might never bring
shame or sorrow on the dear
folk at home.
Indeed, the Squire's last
words deserved to have their
effect, for they had been
the result of much anxious
thought. All the way up to
London he had pondered what
he should say to Tom by way
of parting advice - something
that the boy could keep in
his head ready for use. By
way of assisting meditation,
he had even gone the length
of taking out his flint and
steel and tinder, and hammering
away for a quarter of an
hour till he had manufactured
a light for a long Trichinopoli
cheroot, which he silently
puffed, to the no small wonder
of coachee, who was an old
friend, and an institution
on the Bath road, and who
always expected a talk on
the prospects and doings,
agricultural and social,
of the whole country, when
he carried the Squire.
To condense
the Squire's meditation,
it was somewhat
as follows: "I won't
tell him to read his Bible,
and love and serve God; if
he don't do that for his
mother's sake and teaching,
he won't for mine. Shall
I go into the sort of temptations
he'll meet with? No, I can't
do that. Never do for an
old fellow to go into such
things with a boy. He won't
understand me. Do him more
harm than good, ten to one.
Shall I tell him to mind
his work, and say he's sent
to school to make himself
a good scholar? Well, but
he isn't sent to school for
that - at any rate, not for
that mainly. I don't care
a straw for Greek particles,
or the digamma; no more does
his mother. What is he sent
to school for? Well, partly
because he wanted so to go.
If he'll only turn out a
brave, helpful, truth-telling
Englishman, and a gentleman,
and a Christian, that's all
I want," thought the
Squire; and upon this view
of the case he framed his
last words of advice to Tom,
which were well enough suited
to his purpose.
For they were Tom's first
thoughts as he tumbled out
of bed at the summons of
boots, and proceeded rapidly
to wash and dress himself.
At ten minutes to three he
was down in the coffee-room
in his stockings, carrying
his hat-box, coat, and comforter
in his hand; and there he
found his father nursing
a bright fire, and a cup
of hot coffee and a hard
biscuit on the table.
"Now,
then, Tom, give us your
things here, and
drink this. There's nothing
like starting warm, old fellow."
Tom addressed
himself to the coffee,
and prattled
away while he worked himself
into his shoes and his greatcoat,
well warmed through - a Petersham
coat with velvet collar,
made tight after the abominable
fashion of those days. And
just as he is swallowing
his last mouthful, winding
his comforter round his throat,
and tucking the ends into
the breast of his coat, the
horn sounds; boots looks
in and says, "Tally-ho,
sir;" and they hear
the ring and the rattle of
the four fast trotters and
the town-made drag, as it
dashes up to the Peacock.
"Anything for us, Bob?" says
the burly guard, dropping
down from behind, and slapping
himself across the chest.
"Young gen'lm'n, Rugby;
three parcels, Leicester;
hamper o' game, Rugby," answers
hostler.
"Tell young gent to
look alive," says guard,
opening the hind- boot and
shooting in the parcels after
examining them by the lamps. "Here;
shove the portmanteau up
a-top. I'll fasten him presently.
- Now then, sir, jump up
behind."
"Good-bye, father -
my love at home." A
last shake of the hand. Up
goes Tom, the guard catching
his hatbox and holding on
with one hand, while with
the other he claps the horn
to his mouth. Toot, toot,
toot! the hostlers let go
their heads, the four bays
plunge at the collar, and
away goes the Tally-ho into
the darkness, forty-five
seconds from the time they
pulled up. Hostler, boots,
and the Squire stand looking
after them under the Peacock
lamp.
"Sharp work!" says
the Squire, and goes in again
to his bed, the coach being
well out of sight and hearing.
Tom stands up on the coach
and looks back at his father's
figure as long as he can
see it; and then the guard,
having disposed of his luggage,
comes to an anchor, and finishes
his buttonings and other
preparations for facing the
three hours before dawn -
no joke for those who minded
cold, on a fast coach in
November, in the reign of
his late Majesty.
I sometimes think that you
boys of this generation are
a deal tenderer fellows than
we used to be. At any rate
you're much more comfortable
travellers, for I see every
one of you with his rug or
plaid, and other dodges for
preserving the caloric, and
most of you going in, those
fuzzy, dusty, padded first-class
carriages. It was another
affair altogether, a dark
ride on the top of the Tally-ho,
I can tell you, in a tight
Petersham coat, and your
feet dangling six inches
from the floor. Then you
knew what cold was, and what
it was to be without legs,
for not a bit of feeling
had you in them after the
first half-hour. But it had
its pleasures, the old dark
ride. First there was the
consciousness of silent endurance,
so dear to every Englishman
- of standing out against
something, and not giving
in. Then there was the music
of the rattling harness,
and the ring of the horses'
feet on the hard road, and
the glare of the two bright
lamps through the steaming
hoar frost, over the leaders'
ears, into the darkness,
and the cheery toot of the
guard's horn, to warn some
drowsy pikeman or the hostler
at the next change; and the
looking forward to daylight;
and last, but not least,
the delight of returning
sensation in your toes.
Then the break of dawn and
the sunrise, where can they
be ever seen in perfection
but from a coach roof? You
want motion and change and
music to see them in their
glory - not the music of
singing men and singing women,
but good, silent music, which
sets itself in your own head,
the accompaniment of work
and getting over the ground.
The Tally-ho is past St.
Albans, and Tom is enjoying
the ride, though half-frozen.
The guard, who is alone with
him on the back of the coach,
is silent, but has muffled
Tom's feet up in straw, and
put the end of an oat-sack
over his knees. The darkness
has driven him inwards, and
he has gone over his little
past life, and thought of
all his doings and promises,
and of his mother and sister,
and his father's last words;
and has made fifty good resolutions,
and means to bear himself
like a brave Brown as he
is, though a young one. Then
he has been forward into
the mysterious boy-future,
speculating as to what sort
of place Rugby is, and what
they do there, and calling
up all the stories of public
schools which he has heard
from big boys in the holidays.
He is choke-full of hope
and life, notwithstanding
the cold, and kicks his heels
against the back- board,
and would like to sing, only
he doesn't know how his friend
the silent guard might take
it.
And now
the dawn breaks at the
end of the fourth
stage, and the coach pulls
up at a little roadside inn
with huge stables behind.
There is a bright fire gleaming
through the red curtains
of the bar window, and the
door is open. The coachman
catches his whip into a double
thong, and throws it to the
hostler; the steam of the
horses rises straight up
into the air. He has put
them along over the last
two miles, and is two minutes
before his time. He rolls
down from the box and into
the inn. The guard rolls
off behind. "Now, sir," says
he to Tom, "you just
jump down, and I'll give
you a drop of something to
keep the cold out."
Tom finds a difficulty in
jumping, or indeed in finding
the top of the wheel with
his feet, which may be in
the next world for all he
feels; so the guard picks
him off the coach top, and
sets him on his legs, and
they stump off into the bar,
and join the coachman and
the other outside passengers.
Here a fresh-looking barmaid
serves them each with a glass
of early purl as they stand
before the fire, coachman
and guard exchanging business
remarks. The purl warms the
cockles of Tom's heart, and
makes him cough.
"Rare tackle that,
sir, of a cold morning," says
the coachman, smiling. "Time's
up." They are out again
and up; coachee the last,
gathering the reins into
his hands and talking to
Jem the hostler about the
mare's shoulder, and then
swinging himself up on to
the box - the horses dashing
off in a canter before he
falls into his seat. Toot-toot-tootle-too
goes the horn, and away they
are again, five-and-thirty
miles on their road (nearly
half-way to Rugby, thinks
Tom), and the prospect of
breakfast at the end of the
stage.
And now they begin to see,
and the early life of the
country- side comes out -
a market cart or two; men
in smock-frocks going to
their work, pipe in mouth,
a whiff of which is no bad
smell this bright morning.
The sun gets up, and the
mist shines like silver gauze.
They pass the hounds jogging
along to a distant meet,
at the heels of the huntsman's
back, whose face is about
the colour of the tails of
his old pink, as he exchanges
greetings with coachman and
guard. Now they pull up at
a lodge, and take on board
a well-muffled-up sportsman,
with his gun-case and carpet-bag,
An early up-coach meets them,
and the coachmen gather up
their horses, and pass one
another with the accustomed
lift of the elbow, each team
doing eleven miles an hour,
with a mile to spare behind
if necessary. And here comes
breakfast.
"Twenty minutes here,
gentlemen," says the
coachman, as they pull up
at half-past seven at the
inn-door.
Have we not endured nobly
this morning? and is not
this a worthy reward for
much endurance? There is
the low, dark wainscoted
room hung with sporting prints;
the hat-stand (with a whip
or two standing up in it
belonging to bagmen who are
still snug in bed) by the
door; the blazing fire, with
the quaint old glass over
the mantelpiece, in which
is stuck a large card with
the list of the meets for
the week of the county hounds;
the table covered with the
whitest of cloths and of
china, and bearing a pigeon-pie,
ham, round of cold boiled
beef cut from a mammoth ox,
and the great loaf of household
bread on a wooden trencher.
And here comes in the stout
head waiter, puffing under
a tray of hot viands - kidneys
and a steak, transparent
rashers and poached eggs,
buttered toast and muffins,
coffee and tea, all smoking
hot. The table can never
hold it all. The cold meats
are removed to the sideboard
- they were only put on for
show and to give us an appetite.
And now fall on, gentlemen
all. It is a well-known sporting-house,
and the breakfasts are famous.
Two or three men in pink,
on their way to the meet,
drop in, and are very jovial
and sharp-set, as indeed
we all are.
"Tea or coffee, sir?" says
head waiter, coming round
to Tom.
"Coffee, please," says
Tom, with his mouth full
of muffin and kidney. Coffee
is a treat to him, tea is
not.
Our coachman, I perceive,
who breakfasts with us, is
a cold beef man. He also
eschews hot potations, and
addicts himself to a tankard
of ale, which is brought
him by the barmaid. Sportsman
looks on approvingly, and
orders a ditto for himself.
Tom has eaten kidney and
pigeon-pie, and imbibed coffee,
till his little skin is as
tight as a drum; and then
has the further pleasure
of paying head waiter out
of his own purse, in a dignified
manner, and walks out before
the inn-door to see the horses
put to. This is done leisurely
and in a highly-finished
manner by the hostlers, as
if they enjoyed the not being
hurried. Coachman comes out
with his waybill, and puffing
a fat cigar which the sportsman
has given him. Guard emerges
from the tap, where he prefers
breakfasting, licking round
a tough- looking doubtful
cheroot, which you might
tie round your finger, and
three whiffs of which would
knock any one else out of
time.
The pinks stand about the
inn-door lighting cigars
and waiting to see us start,
while their hacks are led
up and down the market-place,
on which the inn looks. They
all know our sportsman, and
we feel a reflected credit
when we see him chatting
and laughing with them.
"Now, sir, please," says
the coachman. All the rest
of the passengers are up;
the guard is locking up the
hind-boot.
"A good run to you!" says
the sportsman to the pinks,
and is by the coachman's
side in no time.
"Let 'em go, Dick!" The
hostlers fly back, drawing
off the cloths from their
glossy loins, and away we
go through the market-place
and down the High Street,
looking in at the first-
floor windows, and seeing
several worthy burgesses
shaving thereat; while all
the shopboys who are cleaning
the windows, and housemaids
who are doing the steps,
stop and look pleased as
we rattle past, as if we
were a part of their legitimate
morning's amusement. We clear
the town, and are well out
between the hedgerows again
as the town clock strikes
eight.
The sun shines almost warmly,
and breakfast has oiled all
springs and loosened all
tongues. Tom is encouraged
by a remark or two of the
guard's between the puffs
of his oily cheroot, and
besides is getting tired
of not talking. He is too
full of his destination to
talk about anything else,
and so asks the guard if
he knows Rugby.
"Goes
through it every day of
my life. Twenty minutes
afore twelve down - ten o'clock
up."
"What sort of place
is it, please?" says
Tom.
Guard looks
at him with a comical expression. "Werry
out-o'- the-way place, sir;
no paving to streets, nor
no lighting. 'Mazin' big
horse and cattle fair in
autumn - lasts a week - just
over now. Takes town a week
to get clean after it. Fairish
hunting country. But slow
place, sir, slow place-off
the main road, you see -
only three coaches a day,
and one on 'em a two-oss
wan, more like a hearse nor
a coach - Regulator - comes
from Oxford. Young genl'm'n
at school calls her Pig and
Whistle, and goes up to college
by her (six miles an hour)
when they goes to enter.
Belong to school, sir?"
"Yes," says Tom,
not unwilling for a moment
that the guard should think
him an old boy. But then,
having some qualms as to
the truth of the assertion,
and seeing that if he were
to assume the character of
an old boy he couldn't go
on asking the questions he
wanted, added - "That
is to say, I'm on my way
there. I'm a new boy."
The guard looked as if he
knew this quite as well as
Tom.
"You're werry late,
sir," says the guard; "only
six weeks to-day to the end
of the half." Tom assented. "We
takes up fine loads this
day six weeks, and Monday
and Tuesday arter. Hopes
we shall have the pleasure
of carrying you back."
Tom said he hoped they would;
but he thought within himself
that his fate would probably
be the Pig and Whistle.
"It pays uncommon cert'nly," continues
the guard. "Werry free
with their cash is the young
genl'm'n. But, Lor' bless
you, we gets into such rows
all 'long the road, what
wi' their pea- shooters,
and long whips, and hollering,
and upsetting every one as
comes by, I'd a sight sooner
carry one or two on 'em,
sir, as I may be a-carryin'
of you now, than a coach-load."
"What do they do with
the pea-shooters?" inquires
Tom.
"Do wi' 'em! Why, peppers
every one's faces as we comes
near, 'cept the young gals,
and breaks windows wi' them
too, some on 'em shoots so
hard. Now 'twas just here
last June, as we was a- driving
up the first-day boys, they
was mendin' a quarter-mile
of road, and there was a
lot of Irish chaps, reg'lar
roughs, a- breaking stones.
As we comes up, 'Now, boys,'
says young gent on the box
(smart young fellow and desper't
reckless), 'here's fun! Let
the Pats have it about the
ears.' 'God's sake sir!'
says Bob (that's my mate
the coachman); 'don't go
for to shoot at 'em. They'll
knock us off the coach.'
'Damme, coachee,' says young
my lord, 'you ain't afraid.
- Hoora, boys! let 'em have
it.' 'Hoora!' sings out the
others, and fill their mouths
choke-full of peas to last
the whole line. Bob, seeing
as 'twas to come, knocks
his hat over his eyes, hollers
to his osses, and shakes
'em up; and away we goes
up to the line on 'em, twenty
miles an hour. The Pats begin
to hoora too, thinking it
was a runaway; and first
lot on 'em stands grinnin'
and wavin' their old hats
as we comes abreast on 'em;
and then you'd ha' laughed
to see how took aback and
choking savage they looked,
when they gets the peas a-stinging
all over 'em. But bless you,
the laugh weren't all of
our side, sir, by a long
way. We was going so fast,
and they was so took aback,
that they didn't take what
was up till we was half-way
up the line. Then 'twas,
'Look out all!' surely. They
howls all down the line fit
to frighten you; some on
'em runs arter us and tries
to clamber up behind, only
we hits 'em over the fingers
and pulls their hands off;
one as had had it very sharp
act'ly runs right at the
leaders, as though he'd ketch
'em by the heads, only luck'ly
for him he misses his tip
and comes over a heap o'
stones first. The rest picks
up stones, and gives it us
right away till we gets out
of shot, the young gents
holding out werry manful
with the pea- shooters and
such stones as lodged on
us, and a pretty many there
was too. Then Bob picks hisself
up again, and looks at young
gent on box werry solemn.
Bob'd had a rum un in the
ribs, which'd like to ha'
knocked him off the box,
or made him drop the reins.
Young gent on box picks hisself
up, and so does we all, and
looks round to count damage.
Box's head cut open and his
hat gone; 'nother young gent's
hat gone; mine knocked in
at the side, and not one
on us as wasn't black and
blue somewheres or another,
most on 'em all over. Two
pound ten to pay for damage
to paint, which they subscribed
for there and then, and give
Bob and me a extra half-sovereign
each; but I wouldn't go down
that line again not for twenty
half-sovereigns." And
the guard shook his head
slowly, and got up and blew
a clear, brisk toot-toot.
"What fun!" said
Tom, who could scarcely contain
his pride at this exploit
of his future school-fellows.
He longed already for the
end of the half, that he
might join them.
"'Taint such good fun,
though, sir, for the folk
as meets the coach, nor for
we who has to go back with
it next day. Them Irishers
last summer had all got stones
ready for us, and was all
but letting drive, and we'd
got two reverend gents aboard
too. We pulled up at the
beginning of the line, and
pacified them, and we're
never going to carry no more
pea-shooters, unless they
promises not to fire where
there's a line of Irish chaps
a-stonebreaking." The
guard stopped and pulled
away at his cheroot, regarding
Tom benignantly the while.
"Oh,
don't stop! Tell us something
more about the
pea- shooting."
"Well,
there'd like to have been
a pretty piece
of work over it at Bicester,
a while back. We was six
mile from the town, when
we meets an old square-headed
gray-haired yeoman chap,
a-jogging along quite quiet.
He looks up at the coach,
and just then a pea hits
him on the nose, and some
catches his cob behind and
makes him dance up on his
hind legs. I see'd the old
boy's face flush and look
plaguy awkward, and I thought
we was in for somethin' nasty.
"He turns his cob's
head and rides quietly after
us just out of shot. How
that 'ere cob did step! We
never shook him off not a
dozen yards in the six miles.
At first the young gents
was werry lively on him;
but afore we got in, seeing
how steady the old chap come
on, they was quite quiet,
and laid their heads together
what they should do. Some
was for fighting, some for
axing his pardon. He rides
into the town close after
us, comes up when we stops,
and says the two as shot
at him must come before a
magistrate; and a great crowd
comes round, and we couldn't
get the osses to. But the
young uns they all stand
by one another, and says
all or none must go, and
as how they'd fight it out,
and have to be carried. Just
as 'twas gettin' serious,
and the old boy and the mob
was going to pull 'em off
the coach, one little fellow
jumps up and says, 'Here
- I'll stay. I'm only going
three miles farther. My father's
name's Davis; he's known
about here, and I'll go before
the magistrate with this
gentleman.' 'What! be thee
parson Davis's son?' says
the old boy. 'Yes,' says
the young un. 'Well, I be
mortal sorry to meet thee
in such company; but for
thy father's sake and thine
(for thee bist a brave young
chap) I'll say no more about
it.' Didn't the boys cheer
him, and the mob cheered
the young chap; and then
one of the biggest gets down,
and begs his pardon werry
gentlemanly for all the rest,
saying as they all had been
plaguy vexed from the first,
but didn't like to ax his
pardon till then, 'cause
they felt they hadn't ought
to shirk the consequences
of their joke. And then they
all got down, and shook hands
with the old boy, and asked
him to all parts of the country,
to their homes; and we drives
off twenty minutes behind
time, with cheering and hollering
as if we was county 'members.
But, Lor' bless you, sir," says
the guard, smacking his hand
down on his knee and looking
full into Tom's face, "ten
minutes arter they was all
as bad as ever."
Tom showed such undisguised
and open-mouthed interest
in his narrations that the
old guard rubbed up his memory,
and launched out into a graphic
history of all the performances
of the boys on the roads
for the last twenty years.
Off the road he couldn't
go; the exploit must have
been connected with horses
or vehicles to hang in the
old fellow's head. Tom tried
him off his own ground once
or twice, but found he knew
nothing beyond, and so let
him have his head, and the
rest of the road bowled easily
away; for old Blow-hard (as
the boys called him) was
a dry old file, with much
kindness and humour, and
a capital spinner of a yarn
when he had broken the neck
of his day's work, and got
plenty of ale under his belt.
What struck Tom's youthful
imagination most was the
desperate and lawless character
of most of the stories. Was
the guard hoaxing him? He
couldn't help hoping that
they were true. It's very
odd how almost all English
boys love danger. You can
get ten to join a game, or
climb a tree, or swim a stream,
when there's a chance of
breaking their limbs or getting
drowned, for one who'll stay
on level ground, or in his
depth, or play quoits or
bowls.
The guard
had just finished an account
of a desperate
fight which had happened
at one of the fairs between
the drovers and the farmers
with their whips, and the
boys with cricket-bats and
wickets, which arose out
of a playful but objectionable
practice of the boys going
round to the public-houses
and taking the linch-pins
out of the wheels of the
gigs, and was moralizing
upon the way in which the
Doctor, "a terrible
stern man he'd heard tell," had
come down upon several of
the performers, "sending
three on 'em off next morning
in a po-shay with a parish
constable," when they
turned a corner and neared
the milestone, the third
from Rugby. By the stone
two boys stood, their jackets
buttoned tight, waiting for
the coach.
"Look here, sir," says
the guard, after giving a
sharp toot- toot; "there's
two on 'em; out-and-out runners
they be. They comes out about
twice or three times a week,
and spirts a mile alongside
of us."
And as they came up, sure
enough, away went two boys
along the footpath, keeping
up with the horses - the
first a light, clean- made
fellow going on springs;
the other stout and round-
shouldered, labouring in
his pace, but going as dogged
as a bull-terrier.
Old Blow-hard
looked on admiringly. "See how
beautiful that there un holds
hisself together, and goes
from his hips, sir," said
he; "he's a 'mazin'
fine runner. Now many coachmen
as drives a first-rate team'd
put it on, and try and pass
'em. But Bob, sir, bless
you, he's tender-hearted;
he'd sooner pull in a bit
if he see'd 'em a-gettin'
beat. I do b'lieve, too,
as that there un'd sooner
break his heart than let
us go by him afore next milestone."
At the second
milestone the boys pulled
up short,
and waved their hats to the
guard, who had his watch
out and shouted "4.56," thereby
indicating that the mile
had been done in four seconds
under the five minutes. They
passed several more parties
of boys, all of them objects
of the deepest interest to
Tom, and came in sight of
the town at ten minutes before
twelve. Tom fetched a long
breath, and thought he had
never spent a pleasanter
day. Before he went to bed
he had quite settled that
it must be the greatest day
he should ever spend, and
didn't alter his opinion
for many a long year - if
he has yet.
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