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 hostlers, as if they enjoyed the not being hurried.