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.