"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.
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