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.
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