Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng
of ostlers, stableboys, shoeblacks, and those nameless hangers-on
that infest inns and taverns, and run errands and do all kind of
odd jobs for the privilege of battening on the drippings of the
kitchen and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to him
as to an oracle, treasure up his cant phrases, echo his opinions
about horses and other topics of jockey lore, and, above all,
endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuffin that
has a coat to his back thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in
his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey.
Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned
in my own mind that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every
countenance throughout the journey. A stage-coach, however,
carries animation always with it, and puts the world in motion as
it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the entrance of the
village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet
friends; some with bundles and bandboxes to secure places, and in
the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the group that
accompanies them. In the meantime the coachman has a world of
small commissions to execute.
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