THE STAGE COACH.
"Let the steam-pot hiss till it's hot,
Give me the speed of the Tantivy trot."
_Coaching song by R. E. E. Warburton, Esq._
"Now, sir, time to get up, if you please. Tally-ho[1] coach for
Leicester'll be round in half an hour, and don't wait for nobody." So
spake the Boots[2] of the Peacock Inn, Islington,[3] at half-past two
o'clock on the morning of a day in the early part of November, 183-,
giving Tom at the same time a shake by the shoulder, and then putting
down a candle and carrying off his shoes to clean.
[1] #Tally-ho#: the cry with which huntsmen urge on their
hounds; here, a name given to a fast coach.
[2] #Boots#: a servant in an inn who blacks boots, etc.
[3] #Islington#: a northern suburb of London.
TOM ARRIVES IN TOWN.
Tom and his father arrived in town from Berkshire the day before, and
finding, on inquiry, that the Birmingham coaches which ran from the
city did not pass through Rugby, but deposited their passengers at
Dunchurch, a village three miles distant on the main road, where said
passengers had to wait for the Oxford and Leicester coach in the
evening, or to take a post-chaise,[4] had resolved that Tom should
travel down by the Tally-ho, which diverged from the main road and
passed through Rugby itself. And as the Tally-ho was an early coach,
they had driven out to the Peacock to be on the road.
[4] #Post-chaise#: a hired carriage.
Tom had never been in London, and would have liked to have stopped at
the Belle Sauvage,[5] where they had been put down by the Star,[6]
just at dusk, that he might have gone roving about those endless,
mysterious, gas-lit streets, which, with their glare and hum and
moving crowds, excited him so that he couldn't talk even. But as soon
as he found that the Peacock arrangement would get him to Rugby by
twelve o'clock in the day, whereas otherwise he wouldn't be there till
the evening, all other plans melted away; his one absorbing aim being
to become a public-school boy as fast as possible, and six hours
sooner or later seeming to him of the most alarming importance.
[5] #Belle Sauvage#: a famous old inn, formerly in the centre
of London.
[6] #Star#: the name of the coach which brought the Squire and
Tom to London.
Tom and his father had alighted at the Peacock at about seven in the
evening; and having heard with unfeigned joy the paternal order at the
bar, of steaks and oyster-sauce for supper in half an hour, and seen
his father seated cosily by the bright fire in the coffee-room with
the paper in his hand, Tom had run out to see about him, had wondered
at all the vehicles passing and repassing, and had fraternized with
the boots and hostler, from whom he ascertained that the Tally-ho was
a tip-top goer, ten miles an hour including stoppages, and so punctual
that all the road set their clocks by her.
SQUIRE BROWN'S PARTING WORDS.
Then being summoned to supper, he had regaled himself in one of the
bright little boxes[7] of the Peacock coffee-room, on the beefsteak
and unlimited oyster-sauce; had at first attended to the excellent
advice which his father was bestowing on him and then begun nodding,
from the united effects of the fire and the lecture. Till the Squire,
observing Tom's state, and remembering that it was nearly nine
o'clock, and that the Tally-ho left at three, sent the little fellow
off to the chambermaid, with a shake of the hand (Tom having
stipulated in the morning before starting, that kissing should now
cease between them) and a few parting words.
[7] #Boxes#: inclosed places for eating.
"And now, Tom, my boy," said the Squire, "remember you are going, at
your own earnest request, to be chucked into this great school, like a
young bear, with all your troubles before you,--earlier than we should
have sent you perhaps. If schools are what they were in my time,
you'll see a great many cruel blackguard things done, and hear a deal
of foul bad talk. But never fear. You tell the truth, keep a brave and
kind heart, and never listen to or say anything you wouldn't have your
mother and sister hear, and you'll never feel ashamed to come home, or
we to see you."
The allusion to his mother made Tom feel rather choky, and he would
have liked to have hugged his father well, if it hadn't been for the
recent stipulation.
As it was, he only squeezed his father's hand, and looked bravely up
and said: "I'll try, father."
"I know you will, my boy. Is your money all safe?"
"Yes," said Tom, diving into one pocket to make sure.
"And your keys," said the Squire.
"All right," said Tom, diving into the other pocket.
"Well, then, good-night. God bless you! I'll tell Boots to call you,
and be up to see you off."
Tom was carried off by the chambermaid in a brown study,[8] from which
he was roused in a clean little attic, by that buxom[9] person calling
him a little darling, and kissing him as she left the room; which
indignity he was too much surprised to resent. And still thinking of
his father's last words, and the look with which they were spoken, he
knelt down and prayed that, come what might, he might never bring
shame or sorrow on the dear folk at home.
[8] #Brown study#: meditation without any particular object of
thought.
[9] #Buxom#: rosy with health, merry.
THE SQUIRE'S MEDITATIONS.
Indeed, the Squire's last words deserved to have their effect, for
they had been the result of much anxious thought. All the way up to
London he had pondered what he should say to Tom by way of parting
advice; something that the boy could keep in his head ready for use.
By way of assisting meditation, he had even gone the length of taking
out his flint and steel and tinder, and hammering away for a quarter
of an hour till he had manufactured a light for a long cheroot,[10]
which he silently puffed; to the no small wonder of Coachee, who was
an old friend, and an institution on the Bath road; and who always
expected a talk on the prospects and doings, agricultural and social,
of the whole country when he carried the Squire.
[10] #Cheroot#: a kind of cigar.
To condense the Squire's meditation, it was somewhat as follows: "I
won't tell him to read his Bible, and love and serve God; if he
doesn't do that for his mother's sake and teaching, he won't for mine.
Shall I go into the sort of temptations he'll meet with? No, I can't
do that. Never do for an old fellow to go into such things with a boy.
He won't understand me. Do him more harm than good, ten to one.
Shall I tell him to mind his work, and say he's sent to school to
make himself a good scholar? Well, but he isn't sent to school for
that,--at any rate not for that mainly. I don't care a straw for Greek
particles, or the digamma;[11] no more does his mother. What is he
sent to school for? Well, partly because he wanted so to go. If he'll
only turn out a brave, helpful, truth-telling Englishman, and a
gentleman, and a Christian, that's all I want," thought the Squire;
and upon this view of the case he framed the last words of advice to
Tom, which were well enough suited to his purpose.
[11] #Digamma#: an ancient letter of the Greek alphabet. Greek
particles are prepositions and conjunctions--hence nice or
difficult points of Greek grammar.
THE TALLY-HO.
For they were Tom's first thoughts as he tumbled out of bed at the
summons of Boots, and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself. At
ten minutes to three he was down in the coffee-room in his stockings,
carrying his hat-box, coat, and comforter in his hand, and there he
found his father nursing a bright fire, and a cup of hot coffee and a
hard biscuit[12] on the table.
[12] #Hard biscuit#: cracker.
"Now then, Tom, give us your things here, and drink this; there's
nothing like starting warm, old fellow."
Tom addressed himself to the coffee, and prattled away while he worked
himself into his shoes and his great-coat, well warmed through,--a
Petersham coat with velvet collar, made tight after the abominable
fashion of those days. And just as he was swallowing his last
mouthful, winding his comforter round his throat, and 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[13] as it dashes up to the
Peacock.
[13] #Drag#: a four-horse coach.
"Anything for us, Bob?" says the burly guard,[14] dropping down from
behind, and slapping himself across the chest.
[14] #Guard#: a person having charge of a mail-coach, a
conductor.
"Young genl'm'n, Rugby; three parcels, Leicester; hamper[15] o' game,
Rugby" answers Ostler.
[15] #Hamper#: a large, strongly made packing basket.
"Tell young gent to look alive," says guard, opening the hind-boot[16]
and shooting in the parcels after examining them by the lamps. "Here,
shove the portmanteau[17] up a-top,--I'll fasten him presently. Now
then, sir, jump up behind."
[16] #Hind-boot#: a place at the end of a coach for luggage.
[17] #Portmanteau#: travelling bag.
"Good-by, 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.
A NOVEMBER RIDE IN OLD TIMES.
I sometimes think that you boys of this generation are a deal tenderer
fellows than we used to be. At any rate you are much more comfortable
travellers, for I see every one of you with his rug or plaid,[18] and
other dodges for preserving the caloric,[19] and most of you going in
those fuzzy, dusty, padded, first-class carriages.[20] 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 cold, 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
horses' feet on the hard road, and the glare of the two bright lamps
through the steaming hoar-frost,[21] over the leader's ears, into the
darkness; and the cheery toot of the guard's horn, to warn some drowsy
pikeman[22] or the ostler at the next change; and the looking forward
to daylight--and last, but not least, the delight of returning
sensation in your toes.
[18] #Rug or plaid#: a thick shawl or other wrap.
[19] #Caloric#: here, heat of the body.
[20] #First-class carriages#: in England the railway cars
(called "carriages") are divided into first, second, and third
class.
[21] #Hoar-frost#: frozen dew.
[22] #Pikeman#: the man who takes toll on a turnpike.
Then the break of dawn and the sunrise, where can they be ever seen in
perfection but from a coach roof? You want motion and change and music
to see them in their glory; not the music of singing men and singing
women, but good silent music, which sets itself in your own head, the
accompaniment of work and getting over the ground.
The Tally-ho is past St. Albans,[23] and Tom is enjoying the ride,
though half frozen. The guard, who is alone with him on the back of
the coach, is silent, but has muffled Tom's feet up in straw, and put
the end of an oat-sack over his knees. The darkness has driven him
inward, and he has gone over his little past life, and thought of all
his doings and promises, and of his mother and sister, and his
father's last words; and has made fifty good resolutions, and means to
bear himself like a brave Brown as he is, though a young one. Then he
has been forward into the mysterious boy-future, speculating as to
what sort of a place Rugby is, and what they do there, and calling up
all the stories of public schools which he has heard from big boys in
the holidays. He is chock full of hope and life, notwithstanding the
cold, and kicks his heels against the backboard, and would like to
sing, only he doesn't know how his friend the silent guard might take
it.
[23] #St. Albans#: about twenty miles north of London.
"PULLING UP."
And now the dawn breaks at the end of the fourth stage,[24] and the
coach pulls up at a little road-side inn with huge stables behind.
There is a bright fire gleaming through the red curtains of the
bar-window, and the door is open. The coachman catches his whip into a
double thong, and throws it to the ostler; the steam of the horses
rises straight up into the air. He has put them along over the last
two miles, and is two minutes before his time. He rolls down from the
box and into the inn. The guard rolls off behind. "Now, sir," says he
to Tom, "you just jump down, and I'll give you a drop of something to
keep the cold out."
[24] #Stage#: division of a journey.
Tom finds a difficulty in jumping, or, indeed, in finding the top of
the wheel with his feet, which may be in the next world, for all he
feels; so the guard picks him off the coach-top, and sets him on his
legs, and they stump off into the bar, and join the coachman and the
other outside passengers.
Here a fresh-looking barmaid serves them each with a glass of early
purl[25] as they stand before the fire, coachman and guard exchanging
business remarks. The purl warms Tom up and makes him cough.
[25] #Purl#: a hot drink made of beer and other ingredients.
"Rare tackle[26] that, sir, of a cold morning," says the coachman,
smiling. "Time's up." They are out again and up; coachee the last,
gathering the reins into his hands and talking to Jem, the ostler,
about the mare's shoulder, and then swinging himself up on to the
box,--the horses dashing off in a canter before he falls into his
seat. Toot-toot-tootle-too goes the horn, and away they are again,
five-and-thirty miles on their road (nearly half way to Rugby, thinks
Tom), and the prospect of breakfast at the end of the stage.
[26] #Tackle#: stuff.
MORNING SIGHTS AND DOINGS.
And now they begin to see, and the early life of the country-side
comes out: a market cart or two, men in smock-frocks going to their
work, pipe in mouth, a whiff of which is no bad smell this bright
morning. The sun gets up, and the mist shines like silver gauze. They
pass the hounds jogging along to a distant meet,[27] at the heels of
the huntsman's hack,[28] whose face is about the color of the tails
of his old pink,[29] as he exchanges greetings with the coachman
and guard. Now they pull up at a lodge,[30] and take on board a
well-muffled-up sportsman, with his gun-case and carpet-bag. An early
up-coach meets them and the coachmen gather up their horses, and pass
one another with the accustomed lift of the elbow, each team doing
eleven miles an hour, with a mile to spare behind, if necessary. And
here comes breakfast.
[27] #Meet#: a gathering of huntsmen for a hunt.
[28] #Hack#: here, nag or horse kept for rough riding.
[29] #Old pink#: a red hunting-coat.
[30] #Lodge#: a gentleman's house.
"Twenty minutes here, gentlemen," says the coachman, as they pull up
at half-past seven at the inn-door.
BREAKFAST.
Have we not endured nobly this morning, and is not this a worthy
reward for much endurance? There is the low dark wainscoted[31] room
hung with sporting prints; the hat-stand (with a whip or two standing
up in it belonging to bagmen,[32] who are still snug in bed) by
the door; the blazing fire, with the quaint old glass over the
mantel-piece, in which is stuck a large card with the lists of the
meets for the week of the county hounds. The table covered with the
whitest of cloths and of china, and bearing a pigeon pie, ham, round
of cold boiled beef cut from a mammoth ox, and the great loaf of
household bread on a wooden trencher.[33] And here comes in the stout
head waiter, puffing under a tray of hot viands; kidneys and a steak,
transparent rashers[34] 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.
[31] #Wainscoted#: lined with boards or panels.
[32] #Bagmen#: commercial travellers.
[33] #Trencher#: a large wooden plate.
[34] #Rashers#: thin slices of bacon.
"Tea or coffee, sir?" says head waiter, coming round to Tom.
"Coffee, please," says Tom with his mouth full of muffin and kidneys;
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,[35] and puffing a fat cigar which the sportsman has given
him. Guard emerges from the tap,[36] 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.
[35] #Way-bill#: a list of passengers in a public vehicle.
[36] #Tap#: bar-room.
The pinks[37] 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.
[37] #Pinks#: huntsmen.
"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 ostlers fly back, drawing off the cloths from
their glossy loins, and away we go through the market-place and down
the High Street,[38] looking in at the first-floor[39] windows, and
seeing several worthy burgesses[40] shaving thereat; while all the
shop-boys who are cleaning the windows, and the house-maids who are
doing the steps, stop and looked 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.
[38] #High Street#: the main street.
[39] #First-floor#: the floor above the ground-floor,--the
second story.
[40] #Burgess#: a citizen or voter in a town.
GUARD DISCOURSES ON RUGBY.
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 getting
tired of not talking. He is too full of his destination to talk about
anything else; and so asks the guard if he knows Rugby.
"Goes through it every day of my life. Twenty minutes before twelve
down--ten o'clock up."
"What sort of a place is it, please?" says Tom.
Guard looks at him with a comical expression. "Werry out-o'-the-way
place, sir, no paving to streets, nor no lighting. 'Mazin' big horse
and cattle fair in autumn--lasts a week--just over now. Takes town a
week to get clean after it. Fairish hunting country. But slow place,
sir, slow place; off the main road, you see--only three coaches a
day, 'an one on 'em a two-oss van,[41] more like a hearse nor[42] a
coach--Regulator[43]--comes from Oxford. Young genl'm'n at school
calls her Pig and Whistle, and goes up to college by her (six miles
an hour) when they goes to enter. Belong to school, sir?"
[41] #Van#: a large light-covered wagon.
[42] #Nor#: than.
[43] #Regulator#: the name of the rival coach.
"Yes," says Tom, not unwilling for a moment that the guard should
think him an old boy; but then having some qualms as to the truth of
the assertion, and seeing that if he were to assume the character of
an old boy he couldn't go on asking the questions he wanted,
added--"that is to say, I'm on my way there. I'm a new boy."
The guard looked as if he knew this quite as well as Tom.
"You're werry late, sir," says the guard; "only six weeks to-day to
the end of the half."[44] Tom assented. "We takes up fine loads this
day six weeks, and Monday and Tuesday arter.[45] Hopes we shall have
the pleasure of carrying you back."
[44] #Half#: the half year.
[45] #Arter#: after.
Tom said he hoped they would; but he thought within himself that his
fate would probably be the Pig and Whistle.[46]
[46] #Pig and Whistle#: as Oxford lies on the direct road
between Rugby and White Horse Vale, Tom would naturally return
by this coach.
PEA-SHOOTERS.
"It pays uncommon cert'nly," continues the guard.
"Werry free with their cash is the young genl'm'n. But, Lor' bless
you, we gets into such rows all 'long the road, what wi' their
pea-shooters,[47] and long whips and hollering, and upsetting every
one as comes by; I'd a sight sooner carry one or two on 'em, sir, as
I may be a carryin' of you now, than a coach-load."
[47] #Pea-shooters#: tin tubes used by boys for blowing peas
at a mark.
"What do they do with the pea-shooters?" inquires Tom.
"Do wi' 'em! why, peppers every one's faces as we comes near, 'cept
the young gals, and breaks windows wi' them, too, some on 'em shoots
so hard. Now 'twas just here last June, as we was a driving up the
first-day boys,[48] they was mendin' a quarter-mile of road, and there
was a lot of Irish chaps, reg'lar roughs, a breaking stones. As we
comes up, 'Now boys,' says young gent on the box (smart young fellow,
and desper't reckless), 'here's fun! let the Pats have it about the
ears.' 'God's sake, sir,' says Bob (that's my mate the coachman),
'don't go for to shoot at 'em, they'll knock us off the coach.'
'Coachee,' says young my lord, 'you ain't afraid; hoora, boys! let 'em
have it.' 'Hoora!' sings out the others, and fill their mouths chuck
full of peas to last the whole line. Bob, seeing as 'twas to come,
knocks his hat over his eyes, hollers to his 'osses, and shakes 'em
up, and away we goes up to the line on 'em, twenty miles an hour. The
Pats begin to hoora, too, thinking it was a runaway, and first lot on
'em stands grinnin' and wavin' their old hats as we comes abreast on
'em; and then you'd ha' laughed to see how took aback and choking
savage they looked, when they gets the peas a stinging all over 'em.
But bless you, the laugh weren't all of our side, sir, by a long way.
We was going so fast, and they was so took aback, that they didn't
take what was up till we was half-way up the line. Then 'twas 'Look
out all,' surely. They howls all down the line fit to frighten you,
some on 'em runs arter us and tries to clamber up behind, only we hits
'em over the fingers and pulls their hands off; one as had had it very
sharp act'ly[49] runs right at the leaders, as though he'd ketch 'em
by the heads, only luck'ly for him he misses his tip[50] and comes
over a heap o' stones first. The rest picks up stones, and gives it us
right away till we gets out of shot, the young gents holding out werry
manful with the pea-shooters and such stones as lodged on us, and a
pretty many there was, too. Then Bob picks hisself up again, and looks
at young gent on box werry solemn. Bob'd had a rum un[51] in the ribs,
which'd like to ha' knocked him off the box, or made him drop the
reins. Young gent on box picks hisself up, and so does we all, and
looks round to count damage. Box's head[52] cut open and his hat
gone; 'nother young gent's hat gone; mine knocked in at the side,
and not one on us as wasn't black and blue somewheres or another,
most on 'em all over. Two pounds ten to pay for damage to paint,
which they subscribed for there and then, and give Bob and me a extra
half-sovereign each; but I wouldn't go down that line again not for
twenty half-sovereigns." And the guard shook his head slowly, and got
up and blew a clear brisk toot-toot.
[48] #First-day boys#: probably those that went up at the
beginning of the term.
[49] #Act'ly#: actually.
[50] #Tip#: here, mark.
[51] #Rum un#: here, a hard blow.
[52] #Box's head#: that is, the head of the "young gent"
sitting on the seat ("box") with the driver.
"What fun!" said Tom, who could scarcely contain his pride at this
exploit of his future schoolfellows. He longed already for the end of
the half that he might join them.
"'Tain't such good fun, though, sir, for the folks as meets the coach,
nor for we who has to go back with it next day. Them Irishers last
summer had all got stones ready for us, and was all but letting drive,
and we'd got two reverend gents aboard, too. We pulled up at the
beginning of the line, and pacified them, and we're never going to
carry no more pea-shooters, unless they promises not to fire where
there is a line of Irish chaps a stone-breaking." The guard stopped
and pulled away at his cheroot, regarding Tom benignantly the while.
"Oh, don't stop! tell us something more about the pea-shooting."
AN OLD YEOMAN.
"Well, there'd like to have been a pretty piece of work over it at
Bicester, a while back. We was six mile from the town, when we meets
an old square-headed gray-haired yeoman chap, a jogging along quite
quiet. He looks up at the coach, and just then a pea hits him on the
nose, and some catches his cob[53] behind and makes him dance up on
his hind legs. I see'd the old boy's face flush and look plaguy
awkward, and I thought we was in for somethin' ugly.
[53] #Cob#: a short, stout horse.
"He turns his cob's head, and rides quietly after us, just out of
shot. How that ere cob did step! we never shook him off not a dozen
yards in the six miles. At first the young gents was werry lively on
him: but afore we got in, seeing how steady the old chap come on, they
was quite quiet, and laid their heads together what they should do.
Some was for fighting, some for axing his pardon. He rides into the
town close after us, comes up when we stops, and says the two as shot
at him must come before a magistrate; and a great crowd comes round,
and we couldn't get the 'osses to. But the young uns they all stand by
one another, and says all or none must go, and as how they'd fight it
out, and have to be carried. Just as 'twas gettin' serious, and the
old boy and the mob was going to pull 'em off the coach, one little
fellow jumps up and says: 'Here--I'll stay--I'm only going three miles
further. My father's name's Davis, he's known about here, and I'll go
before the magistrate with this gentleman.' 'What! be thee parson
Davis's son?' says the old boy. 'Yes,' says the young un. 'Well, I be
mortal sorry to meet thee in such company, but for thy father's sake
and thine (for thee bi'st[54] a brave young chap) I'll say no more
about it.' Didn't the boys cheer him, and the mob cheered the young
chap--and then one of the biggest gets down, and begs his pardon werry
gentlemanly for all the rest, saying as they all had been plaguy vexed
from the first, but didn't like to ax his pardon till then, 'cause
they felt they hadn't ought to shirk the consequences of their joke.
And then they all got down, and shook hands with the old boy, and
asked him to all parts of the country, to their homes, and we drives
off twenty minutes behind time with cheering and hollering as if we
was county members.[55] But, Lor' bless you, sir," says the guard
smacking his hand down on his knee and looking full into Tom's face,
"ten minutes arter they was all as bad as ever."
[54] #Bi'st#: "beest," art.
[55] #County members#: members of Parliament.
BLOW-HARD AND HIS YARNS.
Tom showed such undisguised and open-mouthed interest in his
narrations, that the old guard rubbed up his memory, and launched out
into a graphic history of all the performances of the boys on the road
for the last twenty years. Off the road he couldn't go; the exploit
must have been connected with horses or vehicles to hang in the old
fellow's head. Tom tried him off his own ground once or twice, but
found he knew nothing beyond, and so let him have his head, and the
rest of the road bowled easily away; for old Blow-hard (as the boys
called him) was a dry old file,[56] with much kindness and humor, and
a capital spinner of a yarn when he had broken the neck of his day's
work, and got plenty of ale under his belt.
[56] #File#: a shrewd person.
What struck Tom's youthful imagination most, was the desperate and
lawless character of most of the stories. Was the guard hoaxing him?
He couldn't help hoping that they were true. It's very odd how almost
all English boys love danger; you can get ten to join a game, or climb
a tree, or swim a stream, when there's a chance of breaking their
limbs or getting drowned, for one who'll stay on level ground, or in
his depth, or play quoits or bowls.[57]
[57] #Quoits or bowls#: quoits are iron rings pitched at short
stakes set in the ground. Bowls are tenpins.
THE RUNNERS.
The guard had just finished an account of a desperate fight which had
happened at one of the fairs between the drovers and the farmers with
their whips, and the boys with cricket-bats and wickets,[58] which
arose out of a playful but objectionable practice of the boys going
round to the public houses and taking the linch-pins out of the wheels
of the gigs, and was moralizing upon the way in which the Doctor,
"a terrible stern man he'd heard tell," had come down upon several
of the performers, "sending three on 'em off next morning, each in a
po-chay[59] with a parish constable," when they turned a corner and
neared the milestone, the third from Rugby. By the stone two boys
stood, their jackets buttoned tight, waiting for the coach.
[58] #Wickets#: stakes which are driven into the ground as a
mark for the ball in playing cricket.
[59] #Po-chay#: a post-chaise; a hired chaise.
"Look here, sir," says the guard, after giving a sharp toot-toot,
"there's two on 'em, out and out runners they be. They comes out about
twice or three times a week, and spurts a mile alongside of us."
And as they came up, sure enough, away went two boys along the
footpath, keeping up with the horses; the first a light, clean-made
fellow going on springs, the other, stout and round shouldered,
laboring in his pace, but going as dogged as a bull-terrier.
Old Blow-hard looked on admiringly. "See how beautiful that there un
holds hisself together, and goes from his hips, sir," said he; "he's a
'mazin' fine runner. Now many coachmen as drives a first-rate team'd
put it on and try and pass 'em. But Bob, sir, bless you, he's
tender-hearted; he'd sooner pull in a bit if he see'd 'em a gettin'
beat. I do b'lieve, too, as that there un'd sooner break his heart
than let us go by him afore next milestone."
At the second milestone the boys pulled up short, and waved their
hats to the guard, who had his watch out and shouted "4.56," thereby
indicating that the mile had been done in four seconds under the five
minutes. They passed several more parties of boys, all of them objects
of the deepest interest to Tom, and came in sight of the town at ten
minutes before twelve. Tom fetched a long breath, and thought he had
never spent a pleasanter day. Before he went to bed he had quite
settled that it must be the greatest day he should ever spend, and
didn't alter his opinion for many a long year,--if he has yet.