[31] #Wainscoted#: lined with boards or panels.
"Tea or coffee, sir?" says head waiter, coming round to Tom.
"Coffee, please," says Tom with his mouth full of muffin and kidneys; coffee is a treat to him, tea is not.
Our coachman, I perceive, who breakfasts with us, is a cold-beef man. He also eschews hot potations, and addicts himself to a tankard of ale, which is brought him by the barmaid. Sportsman looks on approvingly, and orders a ditto for himself.
Tom has eaten kidney and pigeon pie, and imbibed coffee, till his little skin is as tight as a drum; and then has the further pleasure of paying head waiter out of his own purse, in a dignified manner, and walks out before the inn-door to see the horses put to. This is done leisurely and in a highly finished manner by the ostlers, as if they enjoyed the not being hurried. Coachman comes out with his way-bill,[35] and puffing a fat cigar which the sportsman has given him. Guard emerges from the tap,[36] where he prefers breakfasting, licking round a tough-looking doubtful cheroot, which you might tie round your finger, and three whiffs of which would knock any one else out of time.
[35] #Way-bill#: a list of passengers in a public vehicle.
The pinks[37] stand about the inn-door lighting cigars and waiting to see us start, while their hacks are led up and down the market-place on which the inn looks. They all know our sportsman, and we feel a reflected credit when we see him chatting and laughing with them.
"Now, sir, please," says the coachman; all the rest of the passengers are up; the guard is locking up the hind-boot.
"A good run to you," says the sportsman to the pinks, and is by the coachman's side in no time.
"Let 'em go, Dick!" The ostlers fly back, drawing off the cloths from their glossy loins, and away we go through the market-place and down the High Street,[38] looking in at the first-floor[39] windows, and seeing several worthy burgesses[40] shaving thereat; while all the shop-boys who are cleaning the windows, and the house-maids who are doing the steps, stop and looked pleased as we rattle past, as if we were a part of their legitimate morning's amusement. We clear the town, and are well out between the hedgerows again as the town clock strikes eight.