s' feet on the hard road, and the
glare of the two bright lamps through the steaming hoar frost, over the
leaders' ears, into the darkness; and the cheery toot of the guard's
horn, to warn some drowsy pikeman or the ostler at the next change; and
the looking forward to daylight--and last, but not least, the delight of
returning sensation in your toes.

Then the break of dawn and the sunrise; where can they be ever seen in
perfection but from a coach roof? You want motion and change and music
to see them in their glory; not the music of singing-men and
singing-women, but good silent music, which sets itself in your own head
the accompaniment of work and getting over the ground.

The Tally-ho is past St. Alban's, and Tom is enjoying the ride, though
half-frozen. The guard, who is alone with him on the back of the coach,
is silent, but has muffled Tom's feet up in straw, and put the end of an
oat-sack over his knees. The darkness has driven him inwards, and he has
gone over his little past life, and thought of all his doings and
promises, and of his mother and sister, and his father's last words; and
has made fifty good resolutions, and means to bear himself like a brave
Brown as he is, though a young one.

Then he has been forward into the mysterious boy-future, speculating as
to what sort of a place Rugby is, and what they do there, and calling up
all the stories of public schools which he has heard from big boys in
the holidays. He is chock full of hope and life, notwithstanding the
cold, and kicks his heels against the back board, and would like to
sing, only he doesn't know how his friend the silent guard might take
it.

And now the dawn breaks at the end of the fourth stage, and the coach
pulls up at a little road-side inn with huge stables behind. There is a
bright fire gleaming through the red curtains of the bar-window, and the
door is open. The coachman catches his whip into a double thong, and
throws it to the ostler; the steam of the horses rises straight up into
the air. He has put them along over the last two miles, and is two
minutes before his time; he rolls down from the box and into the inn.
The guard rolls off behind. "Now, sir," says he to Tom, "you just jump
down, and I'll give you a drop of something to keep the cold out."

Tom finds a difficulty in jumping, or indeed in finding the top of the
wheel with his feet, which may be in the next world for all he feels;
so the guard picks him off the coa