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 Mr. Waffles, brimming the Fox's head,
which held about the third of a bottle (an inn bottle at least), and
handing it to him.
'Gentlemen all,' said Tom, passing his sleeve across his mouth, and
casting a side-long glance at the company as he raised the cup to drink
their healths.
He quaffed it off at a draught.
'Well, Tom, and what shall we do to-morrow?' asked Mr. Waffles, as Tom
replaced the Fox's head, nose uppermost, on the table.
[Illustration: OLD TOM TOWLER]
'Why, we must draw Ribston Wood fust, I s'pose,' replied Tom, 'and then on
to Bradwell Grove, unless you thought well of tryin' Chesterton Common on
the road, or--'
'Aye, aye,' interrupted Waffles, 'I know all that; but what I want to know
is, whether we can make sure of a run.
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