On the next Tuesday morning at four o'clock hot coffee was going on in
the housekeeper's and matron's rooms; boys wrapped in great-coats and
mufflers were swallowing hasty mouthfuls, rushing about, tumbling over
luggage, and asking questions all at once of the matron; outside the
School-gates were drawn up several chaises and the four-horse coach
which Tom's party had chartered, the postboys in their best jackets and
breeches, and a cornopean player, hired for the occasion, blowing away
"A southerly wind and a cloudy sky," waking all peaceful inhabitants
half-way down the High Street.
Every minute the bustle and hubbub increased: porters staggered about
with boxes and bags, the cornopean played louder. Old Thomas sat in
his den with a great yellow bag by his side, out of which he was paying
journey-money to each boy, comparing by the light of a solitary dip the
dirty, crabbed little list in his own handwriting with the Doctor's list
and the amount of his cash; his head was on one side, his mouth screwed
up, and his spectacles dim from early toil. He had prudently locked the
door, and carried on his operations solely through the window, or he
would have been driven wild and lost all his money.
"Thomas, do be quick; we shall never catch the Highflyer at Dunchurch."
"That's your money all right, Green."
"Hullo, Thomas, the Doctor said I was to have two pound ten; you've only
given me two pound.
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