“Let’s get chairs!” exclaimed he, turning short round on his heel: “let’s get chairs, and be snug; it’s as cheap sitting as standing,” so saying, he wheeled a smoking chair up to the table, and was speedily followed by the rest of the party, with various shaped seats. Then such of the guests as wanted to shirk drinking took whiskey or gin, which they could dilute as much as they chose; while those who didn’t care for showing their predilection for drink, followed Cuddy’s example, and made it as strong as they liked. This is the time that the sot comes out undisguisedly. The form of wine-drinking after dinner is mere child’s play in their proceedings: the spirit is what they go for. At length sots and sober ones were equally helped to their liking; and, the approving sips being taken, the other great want of life—tobacco—then became apparent. “Smoking allowed here,” observed Cuddy Flintoff, diving into his side-pocket for a cigar, adding, as he looked at the wretched old red chintz-covered furniture, which, not even the friendly light of the _moderateur_ lamps could convert into anything respectable: “No fear of doing any harm here, I think?” So the rest of the company seemed to think, for there was presently a great kissing of cigar-ends and rising of clouds, and then the party seeming to be lost in deep reveries. Thus they sat for some minutes, some eyeing their cocked-up toes, some the dirty ceiling, others smoking and nursing their beakers of spirit on their knees. At length Tom Dribbler gave tongue—“What time will the hounds leave the kennel in the morning, Sir Moses?” asked he. “Hoick to Dribbler! Hoick!” immediately cheered Cuddy—as if capping the pack to a find. “Oh, why, let me see,” replied Sir Moses, filliping the ashes off the end of his cigar—“Let me see,” repeated he—“Oh—ah—tomorrow’s Monday; Monday, the Crooked Billet—Crooked Billet—nine miles—eight through Applecross Park; leave here at nine—ten to nine, say—nothing like giving them plenty of time on the road.” “Nothing,” assented Cuddy Flintoff, taking a deep drain at his glass, adding, as soon as he could get his nose persuaded to come out of it again, “I _do_ hate to see men hurrying hounds to cover in a morning.” “No fear of mine doing that,” observed Sir Moses, “for I always go with them myself when I can.” “Capital dodge, too,” assented Cuddy, “gets the fellers past the public houses—that drink’s the ruin of half the huntsmen in England;” whereupon he took another good swig. “Then, Monsieur, and you’ll all go together, I suppose,” interrupted Dribbler, who wanted to see the fun.