Having returned to the familiar surroundings of his humble lodgings after a sojourn of some nine days, Mr Headstone is inclined to look back on the incidents of the week with those conflicting emotions of regret and relief that are often the lot of the reluctant traveller.
Soaked by an icy rain, almost steamed alive by an excessive application of heat from a well-banked fire and then doused with a bowl of cold slops, Mr Headstone found insult being added to injury (in the most literal sense of the phrase) when the coach driver burst into the parlour and began to chastise him for delaying the departure of The Tally Ho - this hunting cry being the appellation ascribed to the four-in-hand that was to transport those individuals set down on the way bill to their destination in the north of the country.
The clock showed a quarter to eight, and at a quarter to eight every morning - in frost and in snow, in wind and in rain, in sun and in shade - The Tally Ho rolled out of the yard, passed under the stone arch and joined the great thoroughfare of life, where it became an immediate danger to any pedestrian who might be inclined to cross the street with the intention of attaining the other side. Aided by the application of a secure purchase to the collar of the gentleman's jacket and the waistband of his trowsers, the driver escorted Mr Headstone to his seat with the greatest expediency, an operation that was achieved at some little discomfort to the other passengers. With a cry and a crack of the lash, the coach driver urged the four chestnut bays forward and - exhibiting a dexterity that demanded nothing less than admiration or something more than incredulity - this worthy whip managed to perform a full revolution of both steeds and carriage whilst holding the reins in one hand and the neck of a black bottle in the other.
Whether it was the precipitous manner in which he had been introduced to the company that discouraged his fellow passengers from essaying polite conversation or whether it was the unpleasant fug created by the damp worsted of his garments within the confined space of the interior, Mr Headstone could not accurately determine. Howsoever it was, he was not to be discouraged by the scowls of the commercial man who sat opposite him nor by the frequent jabs in the ribs he received from the stout gentleman beside him whenever the coach negotiated an uneven stretch of the highway.
When a traveller is denied the casual discourse that passes for entertainment between strangers on a long journey, he must fall upon his own resources to while away the time. This he may do by admiring the scenery that passes before him and remarking inwardly on the variety of life thereby exhibited. If he is in an imaginative frame of mind, he might indulge in some flights of fancy regarding the histories of his fellow passengers and so figuratively peep into the great chapbook of humanity. If the notion takes him, he might wax poetical and compose some lines in his head (to be later copied down for posterity) regarding that great journey on which we have all embarked. Or, alternatively, he might, like Mr Headstone, make a pillow out of his hat and go to sleep.
Mr Charles Dickens
