Mr. Waffles, brimming the Fox's head,
which held about the third of a bottle (an inn bottle at least), and
handing it to him.

'Gentlemen all,' said Tom, passing his sleeve across his mouth, and
casting a side-long glance at the company as he raised the cup to drink
their healths.

He quaffed it off at a draught.

'Well, Tom, and what shall we do to-morrow?' asked Mr. Waffles, as Tom
replaced the Fox's head, nose uppermost, on the table.

[Illustration: OLD TOM TOWLER]

'Why, we must draw Ribston Wood fust, I s'pose,' replied Tom, 'and then on
to Bradwell Grove, unless you thought well of tryin' Chesterton Common on
the road, or--'

'Aye, aye,' interrupted Waffles, 'I know all that; but what I want to know
is, whether we can make sure of a run. We want to give this great
metropolitan swell a benefit. You know who I mean?'

'The gen'leman as is com'd to the Brunswick, I 'spose,' replied Tom; 'at
least as _is_ comin', for I've not heard that he's com'd yet.'

'Oh, but he _has_,' replied Mr. Waffles, 'and I make no doubt will be out
to-morrow.'

'S--o--o,' observed Tom, in a long drawled note.

'Well, now! do you think you can engage to give us a run?' asked Mr.
Waffles, seeing his huntsman did not seem inclined to help him to his
point.

'I'll do my best,' replied Tom, cautiously running the many contingencies
through his mind.

'Take another drop of something,' said Mr. Waffles, again raising the Fox's
head. 'What'll you have?'

'Port, if you please,' replied Tom.

'There,' said Mr. Waffles, handing him another bumper; 'drink Fox-hunting.'

'Fox-huntin',' said old Tom, quaffing off the measure, as before. A flush
of life came into his weather-beaten face, just as a glow of heat enlivens
a blacksmith's hearth, after a touch of the bellows.

'You must never let this bumptious cock beat us,' observed Mr. Waffles.

'No--o--o,' replied Tom, adding, 'there's no fear of that.'

'But he swears he _will_!' exclaimed Mr. Caingey Thornton. 'He swears there
isn't a man shall come within a field of him.'

'Indeed,' observed Tom, with a twinkle of his little bright eyes.

'I tell you what, Tom,' observed Mr. Waffles, 'we must sarve him out,
somehow.'

'Oh! he'll sarve hissel' out, in all probability,' replied Tom; carelessly
adding, 'these boastin' chaps always do.'

'Couldn't we contrive something,' asked Mr. Waffles, 'to draw him out?'

Tom was silent. He was a hunting huntsman, not a riding one.

'Hav