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.
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