by itself; and as it was an early coach, they drove
out to the Peacock Inn, at Islington, to be on the road. Towards nine
o'clock, the squire, observing that Tom was getting sleepy, sent the
little fellow off to bed, with a few parting words, the result of much
thought.

"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. 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, and keep a brave, kind heart, and never listen to or say anything
you wouldn't have your mother or sister hear, and you'll never feel
ashamed to come home, or we to see you."

The mention of his mother made Tom feel rather choky, and he would have
liked to hug his father well, if it hadn't been for his recent
stipulation that kissing should now cease between them, so he only
squeezed his father's hand, and looked up bravely, and said, "I'll try,
father!"

At ten minutes to three Tom was in the coffee-room in his stockings, and
there was his father nursing a bright fire; and a cup of coffee and a
hard biscuit on the table.

Just as he was swallowing the last mouthful, Boots looks in, and says,
"Tally-ho, sir!" And they hear the ring and rattle as it dashes up to
the Peacock.

"Good-bye, father; my love at home!" A last shake of the hand. Up goes
Tom, the guard holding on with one hand, while he claps the horn to his
mouth. Toot, toot, toot! Away goes the Tally-ho into the darkness.

Tom stands up, and looks back at his father's figure as long as you can
see it; and then comes to an anchor, and finishes his buttonings and
other preparations for facing the cold three hours before dawn. The
guard muffles Tom's feet up in straw, and puts an oat-sack over his
knees, but it is not until after breakfast that his tongue is unloosed,
and he rubs up his memory, and launches out into a graphic history of
all the performances of the Rugby boys on the roads for the last twenty
years.

"And so here's Rugby, sir, at last, and you'll be in plenty of time for
dinner at the schoolhouse, as I tell'd you," says the old guard.

Tom's heart beat quick, and he began to feel proud of being a Rugby boy
when he passed the school gates, and saw the boys standing there as if
the town belonged to them.

One of the youn