Their inquiries were business-like and familiar:—­“are ye, Jorrocks?” cried one, holding out both hands.  “How are ye, my lad of wax?  Do you still play billiards?—­Give you nine, and play you for a Nap.”  “Come to my house this evening, old boy, and take a hand at whist for old acquaintance sake,” urged the friend on his left; “got some rare cogniac, and a box of beautiful Havannahs.”  “No, Jorrocks,—­dine with me,” said a third, “and play chicken-hazard.”  “Don’t,” said a fourth, confidentially, “he’ll fleece ye like fun”.  “Let me put your name down to our Pigeon Club; only a guinea entrance and a guinea subscription—­nothing to a rich man like you.”  “Have you any coin to lend on unexceptionable personal security, with a power of killing and selling your man if he don’t pay?” inquired another.  “Are they going to abolish the law of arrest? ’twould be very convenient if they did.”  “Will you discount me a bill at three months?” “Is B——­ out of the Bench yet?” “Who do they call Nodding Homer in your hunt?” “Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen!” cried Mr. Jorrocks, “go it gently, go it gently!  Consider the day is ’ot, I’m almost out of breath, and faint for want of food.  I’ve come all the way from Angle-tear, as we say in France, and lost my breakfast on the wogaye.  Where is there an inn where I can recruit my famished frame?  What’s this?” looking up at a sign, “’Done a boar in a manger,’ what does this mean?—­where’s my French dictionary?  I’ve heard that boar is very good to eat.”  “Yes, but this boar is to drink,” said a friend on the right; “but you must not put up at a house of that sort; come to the Hotel d’Orleans, where all the best fellows and men of consequence go, a celebrated house in the days of the Boulogne Hunt.  Ah, that was the time, Mr. Jorrocks! we lived like fighting-cocks then; you should have been among us, such a rollicking set of dogs! could hunt all day, race maggots and drink claret all night, and take an occasional by-day with the hounds on a Sunday.  Can’t do that with the Surrey, I guess.  There’s the Hotel d’Orleans,” pointing to it as they turned the corner of the street; “splendid house it is.  I’ve no interest in taking you there, don’t suppose so; but the sun of its greatness is fast setting—­there’s no such shaking of elbows as there used to be—­the IOU system knocked that up.  Still, you’ll be very comfortable; a bit of carpet by your bedside, curtains to your windows, a pie-dish to wash in, a clean towel every third day, and as many friends to dine with you as ever you like—­no want of company in Boulogne, I assure you.  Here, Mr. W——­,” addressing the innkeeper who appeared at the door, “this is the very celebrated Mr. Jorrocks, of whom we have all heard so much,—­take him and use him as you would your own son; and, hark ye (aside), don’t forget I brought him.”