Tom Tootler, 19 



*' Good bitch, Priestess," says Tom, patting her as she 

 jumps off the bench to greet us, as we poke our noses 

 into the kennel where she is. "And now. Squire," says 

 Tom, as we bid adieu to the hounds, "come into the 

 house, and have a glass of old ale. Won't do you 

 no harm after your ride, specially such a cold day as 

 this," adds he, stamping his feet on the hard ground by 

 way of emphasis. As there is nothing better in our 

 opinion on a bright frosty morning than a glass of real 

 good ale, we accept his invitation forthwith, and, order- 

 ing the hack to be brought round in half-an-hour, we 

 accompany the huntsman to his snug-looking, ivy-covered 

 house. 



Tom Tootler is a fresh-coloured, keen-eyed, dapper 

 little man of some forty-five summers or thereabouts ; his 

 compactly-built frame looks as if it did not carry an ounce 

 of superfluous flesh, whilst his ruddy face and clear eye 

 denote what good condition he is in ; his closely-cropped 

 hair is just tinged with grey, and if it were not for that 

 sign of age he might very well pass for at least ten years 

 less than he really is. A dark-coloured single-breasted 

 frock-coat, white cord breeches, and leather gaiters, is his 

 costume on the day of our visit, and very neat and natty he 

 looks, quite, in fact, what a huntsman in mufti should be. 

 But to see him at his best one must behold him on a 

 hunting morning. What a swell he is ! " Wonderful 

 smart, surelie,'' say the old women in the villages, as he 

 trots past on his way to the meet. We'll say the hounds 

 meet at Magnum Bonum Castle, the abode of the Marquis 

 of Carabas. Tom, with his hounds and his men, trots 

 through the big park-gates in state. Having done that, 

 bidding the lodgekeeper's pretty wife good morning as he 



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