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Old Tom, in his scarlet coat, black cap, and boots, and Tom in his
undress--say, shirt-sleves, shorts, grey stockings and shoes, bore about
the same resemblance to each other that a three months dead jay nailed to a
keeper's lodge bears to the bright-plumaged bird when flying about. On
horseback, Tom was a cockey, wiry-looking, keen-eyed, grim-visaged,
hard-bitten little fellow, sitting as though he and his horse were all one,
while on foot he was the most shambling, scambling, crooked-going crab that
ever was seen. He was a complete mash of a man. He had been scalped by the
branch of a tree, his nose knocked into a thing like a button by the kick
of a horse, his teeth sent down his throat by a fall, his collar-bone
fractured, his left leg broken and his right arm ditto, to say nothing of
damage to his ribs, fingers, and feet, and having had his face scarified
like pork by repeated brushings through strong thorn fences.
But we will describe him as he appeared before Mr. Waffles, and the
gentlemen of the Laverick Wells Hunt, on the night of Mr.


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