Exit Blake, facing to the right, solemnly but far less noisily than he came in; while Frank with one bound is on the floor, and with another in his tub, not feeling his eyes quite open till he has splashed the bracing cold water into them more than once. While he shaves and dresses, getting through each process with surprising celerity, I may state that the gentleman waiting breakfast for him below is none other than Mr. Picard, the driver of the blue coach with red wheels, the quick-stepping browns, and the loudish lady of the day before. A timely pull in Frank's favour, when the latter was in difficulties with his team at an awkward corner on the Heath,--a little judicious flattery extolling the capabilities of that team, and the mode in which it was handled,--a draught of champagne-cup offered,--a cigar exchanged,--and Vanguard was so pleased with his new friend, that he pressed the invitation which now brought him to breakfast in the officers' mess-room, accompanied by an appetite that never failed, and a determination to make the most of this, as of all other advantages in the game of life. A couple of Cornets are already hard at work, with the voracity of youth just done growing in length but not breadth. Their jaws cease simultaneously at the entrance of a stranger, and, boys as they are, the instinct of each warns him against this plausible personage whom, as a guest, they welcome nevertheless with hospitality and perfect good breeding. It speaks well for Picard's _savoir faire_, that long ere his entertainer comes down, he has made a favourable impression on these late Etonians, so that, emerging to smoke outside in couples as usual, says one inseparable to the other-- "Pleasant company that hairy chap, and tongue enough for a street-preacher! Who the devil is he, Jack, and where did Frank pick him up?" To which Jack, whose real name is Frederic, replies with deliberation: "Not _quite_ the clean potato, young man, you may take my word for it. But that makes no odds. We'll have him to dinner. Shouldn't wonder if the party could sing a good song and do conjuring tricks." "Pea-and-thimble and the rest of it," rejoins his friend. "Come and look at my bay mare." So, dismissing Picard from their thoughts, they leave him to Frank Vanguard and breakfast. These appear simultaneously. Frank, looking exceedingly clean, fresh, and handsome, is full of apologies for keeping his guest waiting. "But you see we were very late last night," he urges, "and I'm not one of those fellows who can do entirely without sleep. If I don't get four or five hours I'm fit for nothing. It's constitutional, no doubt. I think I must have been _born_ tired."