a fur waistcoat laced over with gold chains; a green cutaway coat with
basket-buttons, and a white upper-coat ornamented with cheese-plate
buttons, on each of which was engraved some stirring incident of the road
or the chase; all which ornaments set off this young fellow's figure to
such advantage, that you would hesitate to say which character in life he
most resembled, and whether he was a boxer en goguette, or a coachman in
his gala suit.

"Left that place for good, Pendennis?" Mr. Foker said, descending from
his landau and giving Pendennis a finger.

"Yes, this year--or more," Pen said.

"Beastly old hole," Mr. Foker remarked. "Hate it. Hate the Doctor: hate
Towzer, the second master; hate everybody there. Not a fit place for a
gentleman."

"Not at all," said Pen, with an air of the utmost consequence.

"By gad, sir, I sometimes dream, now, that the Doctor's walking into me,"
Foker continued (and Pen smiled as he thought that he himself had
likewise fearful dreams of this nature). "When I think of the diet there,
by gad, sir, I wonder how I stood it. Mangy mutton, brutal beef; pudding
on Thursdays and Sundays, and that fit to poison you. Just look at my
leader--did you ever see a prettier animal? Drove over from Baymouth.
Came the nine mile in two-and-forty minutes. Not bad going, sir."

"Are you stopping at Baymouth, Foker?" Pendennis asked.

"I'm coaching there," said the other, with a nod.