of the eleemosynary drink generally going on in large
houses of public entertainment, had taken up his quarters in the bar of the
'Imperial,' where he was attentively perusing the 'meets' in _Bell's Life_,
reading how the Atherstone met at Gopsall, the Bedale at Hornby, the
Cottesmore at Tilton Wood, and so on, with an industry worthy of a better
cause; for Tom neither knew country, nor places, nor masters, nor hounds,
nor huntsmen, nor anything, though he still felt an interest in reading
where they were going to hunt. Thus he sat with a quick ear, one of the
few undamaged organs of his body, cocked to hear if Tom Towler was asked
for; when a waiter dropping his name from the landing of the staircase to
the hall porter, asking if anybody had seen anything of him, Tom folded up
his paper, put it in his pocket, and passing his hand over the few
straggling bristles yet sticking about his bald head, proceeded, hat in
hand, upstairs to his master's room.

His appearance called forth a round of view halloos! Who-hoops! Tally-ho's!
Hark forwards! amidst which, and the waving of napkins, and general noises,
Tom proceeded at a twisting, limping, halting, sideways sort of scramble up
the room. His crooked legs didn't seem to have an exact understanding with
his body which way they were to go; one, the right one, being evidently
inclined to lurch off to the side, while the left one went stamp, stamp,
stamp, as if equally determined to resist any deviation.

At length he reached the top of the table, where sat his master, with the
glittering Fox's head before him. Having made a sort of scratch bow, Tom
proceeded to stand at ease, as it were, on the left leg, while he placed
the late recusant right, which was a trifle shorter, as a prop behind. No
one, to look at the little wizen'd old man in the loose dark frock, baggy
striped waistcoat, and patent cord breeches, extending below where the
calves of his bow legs ought to have been, would have supposed that it was
the noted huntsman and dashing rider, Tom Towler, whose name was celebrated
throughout the country. He might have been a village tailor, or sexton, or
barber; anything but a hero.

'Well, Tom,' said Mr. Waffles, taking up the Fox's head, as Tom came to
anchor by his side, 'how are you?'

'Nicely, thank you, sir,' replied Tom, giving the bald head another sweep.

Mr. Waffles.--'What'll you drink?'

Tom.--'Port, if you please, sir.'

'There it is for you, then,' said