'Towler! Towler! Towler! here, good dog--hoop!--here's your liquor!' cried
brother Bob Spangles, holding the smoking tumbler of brandy-and-water out
of the window, as if to tempt any hound that chose to answer to the name of
Towler.
There didn't seem to be a Towler in the pack; at least, none of them
qualified for the brandy-and-water.
'Oh, I'll (hiccup) you what we'll do,' exclaimed Sir Harry: 'I'll (hiccup)
you what we'll do. 'We'll just give them a (hiccup) kick a-piece and send
them (hiccuping) home,' Sir Harry reeling back into the room to the black
horse-hair sofa, where his whip was.
He presently appeared at the door, and, going into the midst of the hounds,
commenced laying about him, rating, and cutting, and kicking, and shouting.
[Illustration: SIR HARRY OF NONSUCH HOUSE]
'Geete away home with ye, ye brutes; what are you all (hiccup)ing here
about? Ah! cut off his tail!' cried he, staggering after a venerable
blear-eyed sage, who dropped his stern and took off.
'Be off! Does your mother know you're out?' cried Bob Spangles, out of the
window, to old Marksman, who stood wondering what to do.
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