n according to his horse, and his civility
is regulated according to his estimation. He pockets a gratuity with as
much ease as a state pensioner; but if some unhappy wight should, in the
plenitude of his ignorance, proffer a sixpence, Tom buttons his pockets
with a smile, and politely "begs to leave it till it becomes more."

With an old meerschaum and a pint of tolerable sherry, we seat ourselves
at our window, and hold many an imaginative conversation with our friend
Tom. Sometimes we are blest with more than ideality; but that is only when
he unbends and becomes jocular and noisy, or chooses a snug corner
opposite our window to enjoy his _otium_--confound that phrase!--we would
say his indolence and swagger--

"A pound to a hay-seed agin' the bay."

Hallo! that's Tom! Yes--there he comes laughing out of "Box 4," with three
others--all _first_ coachmen. One is making some very significant motions
to the potboy at the "Ram and Radish," and, lo! Ganymede appears with a
foaming tankard of ale. Tom has taken his seat on an inverted pail, and
the others are grouped easily, if not classically, around him.

One is resting his head between the prongs of a stable-fork; another is
spread out like the Colossus of Rhodes; whilst a gentleman in a blue
uniform has thrown himself into an attitude a la Cribb, with the facetious
intention of "letting daylight into the _wittling_ department" of the
pot-boy of the "Ram and Radish."

Tom has blown the froth from the tankard, and (as he elegantly designates
it) "bit his name in the pot." A second has "looked at the maker's name;"
and another has taken one of those positive draughts which evince a
settled conviction that it is a last chance.

Our friend has thrust his hands into the deepest depths of his
breeches-pocket, and cocking one eye at the afore-named blue uniform,
asks--

"_Will_ you back the bay?"

The inquiry has been made in such a do-if-you-dare tone, that to hesitate
would evince a cowardice unworthy of the first coachman to the first peer
in Belgrave-square, and a leg of mutton and trimmings are duly entered in
a greasy pocket-book, as dependent upon the result of the Derby.

"The son of Tros, fair Ganymede," is again called into requisition, and
the party are getting, as Tom says, "As happy as Harry Stockracy."

"I've often heerd that chap mentioned," remarks the blue uniform, "but I
never seed no one as know'd him."

"No more did I," replies Tom, "though he