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or what Charles Reade calls ' trade-malice ' almost 

 invariably bias the estimate of a man's fellow-workers ; 

 therefore, when I find old Stephen Goodall, who was 

 huntsman to Mr Corbet's hounds during the short 

 time Moody was whip there, saying that, ' Tom was 

 fonder of fishing in the Severn than of hunting, and 

 fonder of ale than either,' I take that statement with a 

 ver}^ liberal grain of salt. No doubt, however, Tom was 

 too fond of his ale, and Goodall tells an amusing story 

 in illustration of Moody's bibulous propensities. One 

 frosty morning it was decided to let the hounds wait an 

 hour or two in the hope that the sun would take the 

 bone out of the ground. The huntsman and whips 

 adjourned to the servant's hall, where ale was liberally 

 supplied. 



' Now, Tom,' said Goodall, ' there's something to do 

 to-day ; don't you be too free with the ale.' 



' Right ; I won't, master,' replied Moody. ' I'll sit 

 opposite you, and you tread on my foot if you see me 

 getting on too fast.' 



Presently a big Newfoundland dog crept in unnoticed, 

 and, stealing under the table, trod on Tom's foot. 



' Oh come, hang it, master,' cried the indignant whip, 

 * I've only had one horn yet — easy with your foot' 



There was a hearty laugh at Tom's expense when 

 his canine monitor was revealed to him. 



With the exception of that brief sojourn with Mr 

 Corbet at Sundorne, Tom Moody spent all his life in the 

 service of Squire Forester. And that good sportsman 

 used to say that none could bring up the tail end of a 

 pack or sustain the burst of a long chase and be in at 

 the death, with every hound well up, like Tom. His 

 plan was to allow his hounds their own cast without 



