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.
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