Present Etonians ought to hail with delight the prospect of the approaching abolition of the Windsor Bridge Toll. A decade ago it caused—and, doubtless, does so still—many a precocious D to escape the lips of infuriated Oppidans going to town on Saturday-to-Monday "leave." Thus:—
Scene—"My dame's" house in Keat's Lane; wall-eyed, knock-knee'd, sleeping Rosinante attached to prehistoric Windsor "fly," with oldest inhabitant—also asleep—on box, waiting outside.
Time—Winter: immediately after "early school." Enter hurriedly three Etonians who take "fly."
First Etonian. Just six minutes for the train! (Shouting at driver.) To the station—and drive like blazes!
Second E. Drive like Jehu!
Third E. (a wag). "Drive" like W. G—hu! (Third E. promptly sat upon by his companions.)
[Rosinante and Driver wake up and succeed in making astonishing pace up High Street, but pull up half-way across Windsor Bridge.
First E. (having forgotten the "toll"). What in thunder are you pulling up for?
Driver. Toll, Sir.
Second E. Can't wait for the toll. Drive on!
[But Horatius too good a "keeper," and exacts tax. Unwonted opulence of Etonians, who have nothing "less than a ten-shilling piece": consequent delay—nearly two minutes—for change. Chorus from Cab——!!