'No well-bred horse would face such things, I should think.' 'He seems to think a good deal of himself!' observed Mr.Cox, as Sponge cast an admiring eye down his shining boot.
'Shouldn't wonder,' replied Whitfield; 'perhaps he'll have the conceit taken out of him before night.' 'Well, I hope you'll be in time, old boy!' exclaimed Mr.Waffles to himself, as looking down from his bedroom window, he espied Mr.Sponge passing up the street on his way to cover.

Mr.Waffles was just out of bed, and had yet to dress and 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.