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

‘Have a glass of something,’ said Mr Waffles, again appealing to the Fox’s head.

‘Thank you, sir, I’ve had a glass,’ replied Tom, sinking the second one.

‘What will you have?’ asked Mr Waffles.

‘Port, if you please,’ replied Tom.

‘Here it is,’ rejoined Mr Waffles, again handing him the measure.

Up went the cup, over went the contents; but Tom set it down with a less satisfied face than before. He had had enough. The left leg prop, too, gave way, and he was nearly toppling on the table.

Having got a chair for the dilapidated old man, they again essayed to get him into their line with better success than before. Having plied him well with port, they now plied him well with the stranger, and what with the one and the other, and a glass or two of brandy-and-water, Tom became very tractable, and it was ultimately arranged that they should have a drag over the very stiffest parts of the country, wherein all who liked should take part, but that Mr Caingey Thornton and Mr Spareneck should be especially deputed to wait upon Mr Sponge, and lead him into mischief. Of course it was to be a ‘profound secret,’ and equally, of course, it stood a good chance of being kept, seeing how many were in it, the additional number it would have to be communicated to before it could be carried out, and the happy state old Tom was in for arranging matters. Nevertheless, our friends at the Imperial congratulated themselves on their success; and after a few minutes spent in discussing old Tom on his withdrawal, the party broke up, to array themselves in the splendid dress uniform of the ‘Hunt,’ to meet again at Miss Jumpheavy’s ball,