a long Trichinopoli cheroot,
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.

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 don'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; 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 his last words of advice to Tom, which were well enough suited
to his purpose.

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 on the table.

"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 greatcoat, well warmed through--a
Petersham coat with velvet collar, made tight after the abominable
fashion of those days. And just as he is 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, 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 gen'lm'n, Rugby; three parcel