d tucking the ends into the
breast of his coat, the horn sounds, Boots looks in and says, "Tally-ho,
sir;" and they hear the ring and the rattle of the four fast trotters
and the town-made drag, as it dashes up to the Peacock.

"Anything for us, Bob?" says the burly guard, dropping down from behind,
and slapping himself across the chest.

"Young genl'm'n, Rugby; three parcels, Leicester; hamper o' game,
Rugby," answers ostler.

"Tell young gent to look alive," says guard, opening the hind-boot and
shooting in the parcels after examining them by the lamps. "Here, shove
the portmanteau up a-top--I'll fasten him presently. Now then, sir, jump
up behind."

"Good-bye, father,--my love at home." A last shake of the hand. Up goes
Tom, the guard catching his hat-box and holding on with one hand, while
with the other he claps the horn to his mouth. Toot, toot, toot! the
ostlers let go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and away
goes the Tally-ho into the darkness, forty-five seconds from the time
they pulled up; Ostler, Boots, and the Squire stand looking after them
under the Peacock lamp.

"Sharp work!" says the Squire, and goes in again to his bed, the coach
being well out of sight and hearing.

Tom stands up on the coach and looks back at his father's figure as long
as he can see it, and then the guard having disposed of his luggage
comes to an anchor, and finishes his buttonings and other preparations
for facing the three hours before dawn; no joke for those who minded
cold, on a fast coach in November, in the reign of his late majesty.

I sometimes think that you boys of this generation are a deal tenderer
fellows than we used to be. At any rate, you're much more comfortable
travellers, for I see every one of you with his rug or plaid, and other
dodges for preserving the caloric, and most of you going in those fuzzy,
dusty, padded first-class carriages. It was another affair altogether, a
dark ride on the top of the Tally-ho, I can tell you, in a tight
Petersham coat, and your feet dangling six inches from the floor. Then
you knew what cold was, and what it was to be without legs, for not a
bit of feeling had you in them after the first half-hour. But it had its
pleasures, the old dark ride. First there was the consciousness of
silent endurance, so dear to every Englishman,--of standing out against
something, and not giving in. Then there was the music of the rattling
harness, and the ring of the horse