Hallo! that’s Tom! Yes—there he comes laughing out of “Box 4,” with three others—all first coachmen. One is making some very significant motions to the potboy at the “Ram and Radish,” and, lo! Ganymede appears with a foaming tankard of ale. Tom has taken his seat on an inverted pail, and the others are grouped easily, if not classically, around him. One is resting his head between the prongs of a stable-fork; another is spread out like the Colossus of Rhodes; whilst a gentleman in a blue uniform has thrown himself into an attitude à la Cribb, with the facetious intention of “letting daylight into the wittling department” of the pot-boy of the “Ram and Radish.” Tom has blown the froth from the tankard, and (as he elegantly designates it) “bit his name in the pot.” A second has “looked at the maker’s name;” and another has taken one of those positive draughts which evince a settled conviction that it is a last chance. Our friend has thrust his hands into the deepest depths of his breeches- pocket, and cocking one eye at the afore-named blue uniform, asks— “Will you back the bay?” The inquiry has been made in such a do-if-you-dare tone, that to hesitate would evince a cowardice unworthy of the first coachman to the first peer in Belgrave-square, and a leg of mutton and trimmings are duly entered in a greasy pocket-book, as dependent upon the result of the Derby. “The son of Tros, fair Ganymede,” is again called into requisition, and the party are getting, as Tom says, “As happy as Harry Stockracy.” “I’ve often heerd that chap mentioned,” remarks the blue uniform, “but I never seed no one as know’d him.” “No more did I,” replies Tom, “though he must be a fellow such as us, up to everything.” All the coachmen cough, strike an attitude, and look wise. “Now here comes a sort of chap I despises,” remarks Tom, pointing to a steady-looking man, without encumbrance, who had just entered the yard, evidently a coachman to a pious family; “see him handle a hoss. Smear—smear—like bees-waxing a table. Nothing varminty about him—nothing of this sort of thing (spreading himself out to the gaze of his admiring auditory), but I suppose he’s useful with slow cattle, and that’s a consolation to us as can’t abear them.” And with this negative compliment Tom has broken up his conversazione.