 in this condition, passed the whole of the
succeeding day. When the coach came round at last, with London blazoned in
letters of gold upon the boot, it gave Tom such a turn, that he was half
disposed to run away. But he didn't do it; for he took his seat upon the box
instead, and looking down upon the four grays, felt as if he were another gray
himself, or, at all events, a part of the turn-out; and was quite confused by
the novelty and splendour of his situation.
    And really it might have confused a less modest man than Tom to find himself
sitting next that coachman; for of all the swells that ever flourished a whip,
professionally, he might have been elected emperor. He didn't handle his gloves
like another man, but put them on - even when he was standing on the pavement,
quite detached from the coach - as if the four grays were, somehow or other, at
the ends of the fingers. It was the same with his hat. He did things with his
hat, which nothing but an unlimited knowledge of horses and the wildest freedom
of the road, could ever have made him perfect in. Valuable little parcels were
brought to him with particular instructions, and he pitched them into this hat,
and stuck it on again; as if the laws of gravity did not admit of such an event
as its being knocked off or blown off, and nothing like an accident could befall
it. The guard, too! Seventy breezy miles a-day were written in his very
whiskers. His manners were a canter; his conversation a round trot. He was a
fast coach upon a down-hill turnpike road; he was all pace. A waggon couldn't
have moved slowly, with that guard and his key-bugle on the top of it.
    These were all foreshadowings of London, Tom thought, as he sat upon the
box, and looked about him. Such a coachman, and such a guard, never could have
existed between Salisbury and any other place. The coach was none of your
steady-going, yokel coaches, but a swaggering, rakish, dissipated London coach;
up all night, and lying by all day, and leading a devil of a life. It cared no
more for Salisbury than if it had been a hamlet. It rattled noisily through the
best streets, defied the Cathedral, took the worst corners sharpest, went
cutting in everywhere, making everything get out of its way; and spun along the
open country-road
