for the white foam that gathered round the bit, and for an occasional and
unfrequent toss of the head. Behind this horseman, and partially thrown
into the dark shadow of the trees, another man, similarly clad, was
busied in tightening the girths of a horse, of great strength and size.
As he did so, he hummed, with no unmusical murmur, the air of a popular
drinking-song.

"'Sdeath, Ned!" said his comrade, who had for some time been plunged in a
silent revery,--"'Sdeath! why can you not stifle your love for the fine
arts at a moment like this? That hum of thine grows louder every moment;
at last I expect it will burst out into a full roar. Recollect we are
not at Gentleman George's now!"

"The more's the pity, Augustus," answered Ned. "Soho, Little John;
woaho, sir! A nice long night like this is made on purpose for drinking.
Will you, sir? keep still then!"

"Man never is, but always to be blest," said the moralizing Tomlinson;
"you see you sigh for other scenes even when you have a fine night and
the chance of a God-send before you."

"Ay, the night is fine enough," said Ned, who was rather a grumbler, as,
having finished his groom-like operation, he now slowly mounted. "D---
it, Oliver! [The moon] looks out as broadly as if he were going to blab.
For my part, I love a dark night, with a star here and there winking at
us, as much as to say, 'I see you, my boys, but I won't say a word about
it,' and a small, pattering, drizzling, mizzling rain, that prevents
Little John's hoofs being heard, and covers one's retreat, as it were.
Besides, when one is a little wet, it is always necessary to drink the
more, to keep the cold from one's stomach when one gets home."