fing under a tray of hot viands;
kidneys and a steak, transparent rashers and poached eggs, buttered
toast and muffins, coffee and tea, all smoking hot. The table can never
hold it all; the cold meats are removed to the sideboard, they were only
put on for show and to give us an appetite. And now fall on, gentlemen
all. It is a well-known sporting-house, and the breakfasts are 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 ostlers, as if they enjoyed the not
being hurried. Coachman comes out with his way-bill, 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 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 ostlers 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 shop-boys who are
cleaning the windows, and housemaids who are doing the steps, stop and
look pleased as we