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TOM TOOTLER. 



THE HUNTSMAN. 



niSTER TOOTLER be along with the 'ounds, 

 j sir," says a bare-armed helper to us, as we 

 pull up one fine frosty afternoon in front of the 

 kennels inhabited by the Harkaway Hounds, and be- 

 longing to Lord Daisyfield, and make inquiries for the 

 huntsman. " Mister Tootler be along with the 'ounds, sir. 

 If you'll get off, squire, I'll take the cob in and give him a 

 feed whilst you stop." 



Consenting to this arrangement, we dismount and 

 stump off in search of the redoubtable Tom Tootler. We 

 run that worthy to ground, as our friend, the helper, pre- 

 dicted, in the kennel ; in fact, as we tap at the gate we 

 discern him through the bars in the act of stroking with his 

 hunting-whip the black-and-tan back of his favourite, hound. 

 Warrior, and expatiating on that sagacious animal's merits 

 to his friend, Mr. Marrerbone, the well-known sporting 

 butcher of Bullerton, — Marrerbone having druv over, as he 

 calls it, in his gig just to have a friendly glass, a look at the 

 hounds, and wish his old acquaintance, the Huntsman, a 

 happy noo year, and many on 'em. They have had their 

 glass, and have inspected all the hounds, on whose merits 

 Mr. Marrerbone waxes extremely loquacious, the brown 

 brandy, acting on the frosty air, giving him a confidence 

 in his subject that, perhaps, he would not have, on an 



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