He could not even talk when he was crammed with wine, and though he could hold a good quantity, people soon found out they might just as well pour it into a jug as down his throat, so they gave up asking him out.

He was a man of few coats, as well as of few words; one on, and one off, being the extent of his wardrobe.

His scarlet was growing plum-colour, and the rest of his hunting costume has been already glanced at.

He lodged above Smallbones, the veterinary surgeon, in a little back street, where he lived in the quietest way, dining when he came in from hunting,--dressing, or rather changing, only when he was wet, hunting each fox again over his brandy-and-water, and bundling off to bed long before many of his 'field' had left the dining-room.

He was little better than a better sort of huntsman.
Waffles, as we said before, had made himself conspicuous towards the close of Mr.Slocdolager's reign, chiefly by his dashing costume, his reckless riding, and his off-hand way of blowing up and slanging people.
Indeed, a stranger would have taken him for the master, a delusion that was heightened by his riding with a formidable-looking sherry-case, in the shape of a horn, at his saddle.