by the boys in the centre, and away they went at Derby pace.  In six rounds Mr. Jorrocks lost his head, turned completely giddy, and bellowed out to them to stop.  They took no heed—­all the rest were used to it—­and after divers yells and ineffectual efforts to dismount, he fell to the ground like a sack.  The machine was in full work at the time, and swept round three or four times before they could stop it.  At last Mr. Stubbs got to him, and a pitiable plight he was in.  He had fallen on his head, broken his feather, crushed his chapeau bras, lost off his mustachios, was as pale as death, and very sick.  Fortunately the accident happened near the gate leading to the town of St. Cloud, and thither, with the aid of two gendarmes, Mr. Stubbs conveyed the fallen hero, and having put him to bed at the Hotel d’Angleterre, he sent for a “medecin,” who of course shook his head, looked very wise, ordered him to drink warm water—­a never-failing specific in France—­and keep quiet.  Finding he had an Englishman for a patient, the “medecin” dropped in every two hours, always concluding with the order “encore l’eau chaud.”  A good sleep did more for Mr. Jorrocks than the doctor, and when the “medecin” called in the morning, and repeated the injunction “encore l’eau chaud,” he bellowed out, “Cuss your l’eau chaud, my stomach ain’t a reserwoir!  Give me some wittles!” The return of his appetite being a most favourable symptom, Mr. Stubbs discharged the doctor, and forthwith ordered a dejeuner a la fourchette, to which Mr. Jorrocks did pretty fair justice, though trifling in comparison with his usual performances.  They then got into a Versailles diligence that stopped at the door, and rattling along at a merry pace, very soon reached Paris and the Rue des Mauvais-Garcons.

“Come up and see the Countess,” said Mr. Jorrocks as they arrived at the bottom of the flight of dirty stairs, and, with his hands behind his back and his sword dragging at his heels, he poked upstairs, and opening the outer door entered the apartment.  He passed through the small ante-room without observing his portmanteau and carpet-bag on the table, and there being no symptoms of the Countess in the next one, he walked forward into the bedroom beyond.

Before an English fire-place that Mr. Jorrocks himself had been at the expense of providing, snugly ensconced in the luxurious depths of a well-cushioned easy chair, sat a monstrous man with a green patch on his right eye, in slippers, loose hose, a dirty grey woollen dressing-gown, and black silk nightcap, puffing away at a long meerschaum pipe, with a figure of Bacchus on the bowl.  At a sight so unexpected Mr. Jorrocks started back, but the smoker seemed quite unconcerned, and casting an unmeaning grey eye at the intruder, puffed a long-drawn respiration from his mouth.

“How now!” roared Mr. Jorrocks, boiling into a rage, which caused the monster to start upon his legs as though he were galvanised.  “Vot brings you here?”