breakfast.

One man in scarlet sets all the rest on the fidget, and without troubling
to lay 'that or that' together, they desert their breakfasts, hurry to the
stables, get out their horses and rattle away, lest their watches should be
wrong or some arrangement made that they are ignorant of. The hounds too,
were on, as was seen as well by their footmarks, as by the bob, bob,
bobbing of sundry black caps above the hedges, on the Borrowdon road as the
huntsman and whips proceeded at that pleasant post-boy trot, that has
roused the wrath of so many riders against horses that they could not get
to keep in time.

Now look at old Tom, cocked jauntily on the spicey bay and see what a
different Tom he is to what he was last night. Instead of a battered,
limping, shabby-looking little old man, he is all alive and rises to the
action of his horse, as though they were all one. A fringe of grey hair
protrudes beneath his smart velvet cap, which sets off a weather-beaten but
keen and expressive face, lit up with little piercing black eyes. See how
chirpy and cheery he is; how his right arm keeps rising and falling with
his whip, beating responsive to the horse's action with the butt-end
against his thigh. His new scarlet coat imparts a healthy hue to his face,
and good boots and breeches hide the imperfections of his bad legs. His
hounds seem to partake of the old man's gaiety, and gather round his horse
or frolic forward on the grassy sidings of the road, till, getting almost
out of earshot, a single 'yooi doit!--Arrogant!'--or 'here again, Brusher!'
brings them cheerfully back to whine and look in the old man's
face for applause. Nor is he chary of his praise. 'G--oood
betch!--Arrogant!--g--oood betch!' says he, leaning over his horse's
shoulder towards her, and jerking his hand to induce her to proceed forward
again. So the old man trots gaily on, now making of his horse, now coaxing
a hound, now talking to a 'whip,' now touching or taking off his cap as he
passes a sportsman, according to the estimation in which he holds him.

As the hounds reach Whirleypool Windmill, there is a grand rush of
pedestrians to meet them. First comes a velveteen-jacketed,
leather-legginged keeper, with whom Tom (albeit suspicious of his honesty)
thinks it prudent to shake hands; the miller and he, too, greet; and
forthwith a black bottle with a single glass make their appearance, and
pass current with the company. Then the earth-stopper draws nig