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 parcels, Leicester; hamper o’ game, Rugby,” answers hostler.

“Tell young gent to look alive,” says guard, opening the hind-boot and shooting in the parcels after examining them by the lamps.  “Here; shove the portmanteau up a-top.  I’ll fasten him presently.—­Now then, sir, jump up behind.”

“Good-bye, father—­my love at home.”  A last shake of the hand.  Up goes Tom, the guard catching his hatbox and holding on with one hand, while with the other he claps the horn to his mouth.  Toot, toot, toot! the hostlers let go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and away goes the Tally-ho into the darkness, forty-five seconds from the time they pulled up.  Hostler, boots, and the Squire stand looking after them under the Peacock lamp.

“Sharp work!” says the Squire, and goes in again to his bed, the coach being well out of sight and hearing.

Tom stands up on the coach and looks back at his father’s figure as long as he can see it; and then the guard, having disposed of his luggage, comes to an anchor, and finishes his buttonings and other preparations for facing the three hours before dawn—­no joke for those who minded cold, on a fast coach in November, in the reign of his late Majesty.