Horses_, with Hoyle's _Whist_ as lighter reading for leisured
hours. He was a hard rider, a hard swearer, and a hard drinker, and, after
being double japanned, as he called it, by a friendly bishop, had been
pitchforked by the Squire into a neighbouring parish of three hundred a
year in order that the Squire's dogs and hounds, and the game and poachers
on the estate, might have the benefit of his ministrations. He had,
however, sense enough to buy good sermons. "At any rate the women tell me
they're good," explained the Squire. "I can't say for myself, for Joe's a
reasonable cock, and always shuts up as soon as I wake up."

The Bow Street runner, Mr. Wicks, and the red-nosed petty constable of
the hundred, who answered to the name of Pinkie Yates, were of the party.
I ate little and drank less, but the others emptied the bottles at a
great pace and were soon hot with drink. One brew, which the huntsmen
quaffed with much zest, I insisted, out of regard for my stomach, on
passing round untouched, though the men of law took their share like
heroes, and, I doubt not, thought they were for once hob-nobbing with the
gods. The manner of it was thus. The parson drew from his pocket a leg of
the fox they had killed that day, and, stinking, filthy, and bloody as it
was, squeezed and stirred it in a four-handled tyg of claret. In this evil
compound the Squire solemnly gave us the huntsman's toast:

"_Horses sound. Dogs hearty,
Earth's stopped, and Foxes plenty_."

The parson then hiccoughed a song for which he should have been put in
the stocks, after which Mr. Wicks, with three empty bottles and three
knives to stand for the gallows, gave us a vivid account of the
turning-off of the famous Captain Suck Ensor, who kicked and twitched for
ten minutes before his own claimed him.