necessary, for the lady's sake, to explain that the basket was
a strictly Platonic basket, and had merely been presented to him in the
way of friendship. When he had made the statement with perfect gravity;
for he felt it incumbent on him to disabuse the mind of this lax rover
of any incorrect impressions on the subject; he signified that he would
be happy to share the gifts with him, and proposed that they should
attack the basket in a spirit of good fellowship at any time in the
course of the night which the coachman's experience and knowledge of the
road might suggest, as being best adapted to the purpose. From this time
they chatted so pleasantly together, that although Tom knew infinitely
more of unicorns than horses, the coachman informed his friend the guard
at the end of the next stage, 'that rum as the box-seat looked, he was
as good a one to go, in pint of conversation, as ever he'd wish to sit
by.'

Yoho, among the gathering shades; making of no account the deep
reflections of the trees, but scampering on through light and darkness,
all the same, as if the light of London fifty miles away, were quite
enough to travel by, and some to spare. Yoho, beside the village green,
where cricket-players linger yet, and every little indentation made in
the fresh grass by bat or wicket, ball or player's foot, sheds out its
perfume on the night. Away with four fresh horses from the Bald-faced
Stag, where topers congregate about the door admiring; and the last
team with traces hanging loose, go roaming off towards the pond, until
observed and shouted after by a dozen throats, while volunteering boys
pursue them. Now, with a clattering of hoofs and striking out of fiery
sparks, across the old stone bridge, and down again into the shadowy
road, and through the open gate, and far away, away, into the wold.
Yoho!

Yoho, behind there, stop that bugle for a moment! Come creeping over to
the front, along the coach-roof, guard, and make one at this basket! Not
that we slacken in our pace the while, not we; we rather put the bits
of blood upon their metal, for the greater glory of the snack. Ah! It
is long since this bottle of old wine was brought into contact with the
mellow breath of night, you may depend, and rare good stuff it is to wet
a bugler's whistle with. Only try it. Don't be afraid of turning up your
finger, Bill, another pull! Now, take your breath, and try the bugle,
Bill. There's music! There's a tone!' over the hil