At length,
having got them somewhat tranquillized, he set off on his return to the
stables, coaxing the shy hounds, and rating and rapping those that seemed
inclined to break away. Thus he managed to march into the stable-yard in
pretty good order, just as the house party arrived in the opposite
direction, attired in the most extraordinary and incongruous habiliments.
There was Bob Spangles, in a swallow-tailed, mulberry-coloured scarlet,
that looked like an old pen-wiper, white duck trousers, and lack-lustre
Napoleon boots; Captain Cutitfat, in a smart new 'Moses and Son's'
straight-cut scarlet, with bloodhound heads on the buttons, yellow-ochre
leathers, and Wellington boots with drab knee-caps; little Bouncey in a
tremendously baggy long-backed scarlet, whose gaping outside-pockets showed
that they had carried its late owner's hands as well as his handkerchief;
the clumsy device on the tarnished buttons looking quite as much like
sheep's-heads as foxes'. Bouncey's tight tweed trousers were thrust into a
pair of wide fisherman's boots, which, but for his little roundabout
stomach, would have swallowed him up bodily.
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