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.
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