TOM draw's visit TO PINK BROOK. 191 



canine race, mongrels of low degree alone excepted — under 

 these were susi>ended, upon brackets, two long duck guns, 

 and an array of tandem and four-horse whips, besides two 

 fly-rods, and a cherry-stick Persian pipe, ten feet at least 

 in length. The space between the windows was occupied 

 by two fine engravings, one of the Duke of Wellington, 

 the other of Sir Walter in his study — Harry's political 

 and literary idols ; a library centre table, with an inkstand 

 of costly huhl, covered with periodicals and papers, and 

 no less than four sumptuous arm-chairs of divers forms 

 and patterns, completed the appointments of the room; 

 but the picture still would be incomplete, were I to pass 

 over a huge tortoise-shell Tom Cat, which dozed upon the 

 rug in amicable vicinity to our old friends the spaniels 

 Dan and Flash. It did not occupy me quite so long to 

 take a survey of these well-remembered articles, as it has 

 done to describe them ; nor, in fact, had that been the case, 

 should I have found the time to reconnoitre them; for 

 scarcely was I seated by the fire, before the ponderous 

 trampling of Old Tom might be heard on the stair-case, 

 as in vociferous converse with our host he came down 

 from the chamber, wherein, by some strange process of 

 persuasion assuredly peculiar to himself, Harry had forced 

 him to go through the ceremony of ablution, previous to 

 his attack upon the viands, which were in truth not likely 

 to be dealt with more mercifully in consequence of this 

 delay. Another moment, and they entered — ^'Arcades 

 a mho" duly rigged for the occasion — Harry in his neat 

 claret-colored-jockycoat, white waistcoat, corduroys, and 

 gaiters — Tom in Canary-colored vest, sky-blue dress coat 

 with huge brass buttons, gray kerseymere unmentionables, 

 with his hair positively brushed, and his broad jolly face 

 clean shaved, and wonderfully redolent of soap and water. 

 The good old soul's face beamed with unfeigned delight, 

 and grasping me affectionately by the hand — 



"How be you ?" he exclaimed — "How be you. Forester — 

 you looks well, anyways." 



"Why, I am well, Tom," responded I, "but I shall be 

 better after I've had that drink that Archer's getting ready 

 — you're dry, I fancy — " 



"Sartain!" was the expected answer: and in a moment 

 the pale Amontillado sherry and the bitters were paraded 

 — but no such darned washy stuff, as he termed it, would 



