“Now hark’e, waiter! there’s the guard blowing his horn, and we have scarcely had a bite apiece,” cries Mr. Jorrocks, as that functionary sounded his instrument most energetically in the passage; “blow me tight, if I stir before the full half-hour’s up, so he may blow till he’s black in the face.”  “Take some cheese, sir?” inquires the waiter.  “No, surely not, some more pork, and then some tarts”.  “Sorry, sir, we have no tarts we can recommend.  Cheese is partiklar good.” [Enter coachman, peeled down to a more moderate-sized man.]

“Leaves ye here, if you please, sur.”  “With all my heart, my good friend.”  “Please to remember the coachman—­driv ye thirty miles.”  “Yes, but you’ll recollect how saucy you were about my wife’s bonnet-box there’s sixpence between us for you.”  “Oh, sur!  I’m sure I didn’t mean no unpurliteness.  I ’opes you’ll forget it; it was werry aggravising, certainly, but driv ye thirty miles.  ’Opes you’ll give a trifle more, thirty miles.”  “No, no, no more; so be off.”  “Please to remember the coachman, ma’am, thirty miles!” “Leaves ye here, sir, if you please; goes no further, sir; thirty miles, ma’am; all the vay from Lunnun, sir.”

A loud flourish on the bugle caused the remainder of the gathering to be made in dumb show, and having exhausted his wind, the guard squeezed through the door, and, with an extremely red face, assured the company that “time was hup” and the “coach quite ready.”  Then out came the purses, brown, green, and blue, with the usual inquiry, “What’s dinner, waiter?” “Two and six, dinner, beer, three,—­two and nine yours,” replied the knock-kneed caitiff to the first inquirer, pushing a blue-and-white plate under his nose; “yours is three and six, ma’am;—­two glasses of brandy-and-water, four shillings, if you please sir—­a bottle of real Devonshire cider.”—­“You must change me a sovereign,” handing one out.  “Certainly, sir,” upon which the waiter, giving it a loud ring upon the table, ran out of the room.  “Now, gentlemen and ladies! pray, come, time’s hup—­carn’t wait—­must go”—­roars the guard, as the passengers shuffle themselves into their coats, cloaks, and cravats, and Joe “Boots” runs up the passage with the ladder for the lady.  “Now, my dear Mrs. Sprat, good-bye.—­God bless you, and remember me most kindly to your husband and dear little ones —­and pray, write soon,” says an elderly lady, as she hugs and kisses a youngish one at the door, who has been staying with her for a week, during which time they have quarrelled regularly every night.  “Have you all your things, dearest? three boxes, five parcels, an umbrella, a parasol, the cage for Tommy’s canary, and the bundle in the red silk handkerchief—­then good-bye, my beloved, step up—­and now, Mr. Guard, you know where to set her down.”  “Good-bye, dearest Mrs. Jackson, all right, thank you,” replies Mrs. Sprat, stepping up the ladder, and adjusting herself in the gammon board opposite the guard, the seat the last comer generally