OLD TOM TOWLER
[Illustration]
There are few more difficult persons to identify than a huntsman in
undress, and of all queer ones perhaps old Tom Towler was the queerest. Tom
in his person furnished an apt illustration of the right appropriation of
talent and the fitness of things, for he would neither have made a groom,
nor a coachman, nor a postillion, nor a footman, nor a ploughman, nor a
mechanic, nor anything we know of, and yet he was first-rate as a huntsman.
He was too weak for a groom, too small for a coachman, too ugly for a
postillion, too stunted for a footman, too light for a ploughman, too
useless-looking for almost anything.
Any one looking at him in 'mufti' would exclaim, 'what an unfortunate
object!' and perhaps offer him a penny, while in his hunting habiliments
lords would hail him with, 'Well, Tom, how are you?' and baronets ask him
'how he was?' Commoners felt honoured by his countenance, and yet, but for
hunting, Tom would have been wasted--a cypher--an inapplicable sort of man.
Old Tom, in his scarlet coat, black cap, and boots, and Tom in his
undress--say, shirt-sleves, shorts, grey stockings and shoes, bore about
the same resemblance to each other that a three months dead jay nailed to a
keeper's lodge bears to the bright-plumaged bird when flying about. On
horseback, Tom was a cockey, wiry-looking, keen-eyed, grim-visaged,
hard-bitten little fellow, sitting as though he and his horse were all one,
while on foot he was the most shambling, scambling, crooked-going crab that
ever was seen. He was a complete mash of a man. He had been scalped by the
branch of a tree, his nose knocked into a thing like a button by the kick
of a horse, his teeth sent down his throat by a fall, his collar-bone
fractured, his left leg broken and his right arm ditto, to say nothing of
damage to his ribs, fingers, and feet, and having had his face scarified
like pork by repeated brushings through strong thorn fences.
But we will describe him as he appeared before Mr. Waffles, and the
gentlemen of the Laverick Wells Hunt, on the night of Mr. Sponge's arrival.
Tom's spirit being roused at hearing the boastings of Mr. Leather, and
thinking, perhaps, his master might have something to say, or thinking,
perhaps, to partake of the eleemosynary drink generally going on in large
houses of public entertainment, had taken up his quarters in the bar of the
'Imperial,' where he was attentively perusing the 'meets' in _Bell's Life_,
reading how the Atherstone met at Gopsall, the Bedale at Hornby, the
Cottesmore at Tilton Wood, and so on, with an industry worthy of a better
cause; for Tom neither knew country, nor places, nor masters, nor hounds,
nor huntsmen, nor anything, though he still felt an interest in reading
where they were going to hunt. Thus he sat with a quick ear, one of the
few undamaged organs of his body, cocked to hear if Tom Towler was asked
for; when a waiter dropping his name from the landing of the staircase to
the hall porter, asking if anybody had seen anything of him, Tom folded up
his paper, put it in his pocket, and passing his hand over the few
straggling bristles yet sticking about his bald head, proceeded, hat in
hand, upstairs to his master's room.
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. 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. We want to give this great
metropolitan swell a benefit. You know who I mean?'
'The gen'leman as is com'd to the Brunswick, I 'spose,' replied Tom; 'at
least as _is_ comin', for I've not heard that he's com'd yet.'
'Oh, but he _has_,' replied Mr. Waffles, 'and I make no doubt will be out
to-morrow.'
'S--o--o,' observed Tom, in a long drawled note.
'Well, now! do you think you can engage to give us a run?' asked Mr.
Waffles, seeing his huntsman did not seem inclined to help him to his
point.
'I'll do my best,' replied Tom, cautiously running the many contingencies
through his mind.
'Take another drop of something,' said Mr. Waffles, again raising the Fox's
head. 'What'll you have?'
'Port, if you please,' replied Tom.
'There,' said Mr. Waffles, handing him another bumper; 'drink Fox-hunting.'
'Fox-huntin',' said old Tom, quaffing off the measure, as before. A flush
of life came into his weather-beaten face, just as a glow of heat enlivens
a blacksmith's hearth, after a touch of the bellows.
'You must never let this bumptious cock beat us,' observed Mr. Waffles.
'No--o--o,' replied Tom, adding, 'there's no fear of that.'
'But he swears he _will_!' exclaimed Mr. Caingey Thornton. 'He swears there
isn't a man shall come within a field of him.'
'Indeed,' observed Tom, with a twinkle of his little bright eyes.
'I tell you what, Tom,' observed Mr. Waffles, 'we must sarve him out,
somehow.'
'Oh! he'll sarve hissel' out, in all probability,' replied Tom; carelessly
adding, 'these boastin' chaps always do.'
'Couldn't we contrive something,' asked Mr. Waffles, 'to draw him out?'
Tom was silent. He was a hunting huntsman, not a riding one.
'Have a glass of something,' said Mr. Waffles, again appealing to the Fox's
head.
'Thank you, sir, I've had a glass,' replied Tom, sinking the second one.
'What will you have?' asked Mr. Waffles.
'Port, if you please,' replied Tom.
'Here it is,' rejoined Mr. Waffles, again handing him the measure.
Up went the cup, over went the contents; but Tom set it down with a less
satisfied face than before. He had had enough. The left leg prop, too, gave
way, and he was nearly toppling on the table.
Having got a chair for the dilapidated old man, they again essayed to get
him into their line, with better success than before. Having plied him well
with port, they now plied him well with the stranger, and what with the one
and the other, and a glass or two of brandy-and-water, Tom became very
tractable, and it was ultimately arranged that they should have a drag over
the very stiffest parts of the country, wherein all who liked should take
part, but that Mr. Caingey Thornton and Mr. Spareneck should be especially
deputed to wait upon Mr. Sponge, and lead him into mischief. Of course it
was to be a 'profound secret,' and equally, of course, it stood a good
chance of being kept, seeing how many were in it, the additional number it
would have to be communicated to before it could be carried out, and the
happy state old Tom was in for arranging matters. Nevertheless, our friends
at the 'Imperial' congratulated themselves on their success; and after a
few minutes spent in discussing old Tom on his withdrawal, the party broke
up, to array themselves in the splendid dress uniform of the 'Hunt,' to
meet again at Miss Jumpheavy's ball.