re
famous. Two or three men in pink, on their way to the meet, drop in, and
are very jovial and sharp-set, as indeed we all are.

"Tea or coffee, sir?" says head waiter, coming round to Tom.

"Coffee, please," says Tom, with his mouth full of muffin and kidney.
Coffee is a treat to him, tea is not.

Our coachman, I perceive, who breakfasts with us, is a cold beef man.
He also eschews hot potations, and addicts himself to a tankard of ale,
which is brought him by the barmaid. Sportsman looks on approvingly, and
orders a ditto for himself.

Tom has eaten kidney and pigeon-pie, and imbibed coffee, till his little
skin is as tight as a drum; and then has the further pleasure of paying
head waiter out of his own purse, in a dignified manner, and walks out
before the inn-door to see the horses put to. This is done leisurely and
in a highly-finished manner by the hostlers, as if they enjoyed the not
being hurried. Coachman comes out with his waybill, and puffing a fat
cigar which the sportsman has given him. Guard emerges from the tap,
where he prefers breakfasting, licking round a tough-looking doubtful
cheroot, which you might tie round your finger, and three whiffs of
which would knock any one else out of time.

The pinks stand about the inn-door lighting cigars and waiting to see us
start, while their hacks are led up and down the market-place, on which
the inn looks. They all know our sportsman, and we feel a reflected
credit when we see him chatting and laughing with them.

"Now, sir, please," says the coachman. All the rest of the passengers
are up; the guard is locking up the hind-boot.

"A good run to you!" says the sportsman to the pinks, and is by the
coachman's side in no time.

"Let 'em go, Dick!" The hostlers fly back, drawing off the cloths from
their glossy loins, and away we go through the market-place and down the
High Street, looking in at the first-floor windows, and seeing several
worthy burgesses shaving thereat; while all the shopboys who are
cleaning the windows, and housemaids who are doing the steps, stop and
look pleased as we rattle past, as if we were a part of their legitimate
morning's amusement. We clear the town, and are well out between the
hedgerows again as the town clock strikes eight.

The sun shines almost warmly, and breakfast has oiled all springs
and loosened all tongues. Tom is encouraged by a remark or two of the
guard's between the puffs of his oily cheroot, and besides is