Coachman comes out with his waybill, 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 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 hostlers 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 shopboys who are cleaning the windows, and housemaids who are doing the steps, stop and look 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.
The sun shines almost warmly, and breakfast has oiled all springs and loosened all tongues.