He was little better than a better sort of huntsman.
Waffles, as we said before, had made himself conspicuous towards the close
of Mr. Slocdolager's reign, chiefly by his dashing costume, his reckless
riding, and his off-hand way of blowing up and slanging people.
Indeed, a stranger would have taken him for the master, a delusion that was
heightened by his riding with a formidable-looking sherry-case, in the
shape of a horn, at his saddle. Save when engaged in sucking this, his
tongue was never at fault. It was jabber, jabber, jabber; chatter, chatter,
chatter; prattle, prattle, prattle; occasionally about something, oftener
about nothing, but in cover or out, stiff country or open, trotting or
galloping, wet day or dry, good scenting day or bad. Waffles' clapper never
was at rest. Like all noisy chaps, too, he could not bear any one to make a
noise but himself. In furtherance of this, he called in the aid of his
Oxfordshire rhetoric. He would halloo _at_ people, designating them by some
peculiarity that he thought he could wriggle out of, if necessary, instead
of attacking them by name.
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