toilinette waistcoat, and drab trousers, with a whip in his hand.  “Thank you for nothing!” replied Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing him in return, upon which the speaker turned to the clerk and asked if there were any letters for Monsieur Apperley or Nimrod.  “NIMROD!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, dropping on his knees as though he were shot.  “Oh my vig what have I done?  Oh dear! oh dear! what a dumbfounderer—­flummoxed I declare!”

“Hold up! old ’un,” said Nimrod in astonishment; “why, what’s the matter now?  You don’t owe me anything I dare say!”

“Owe you anything! yes, I does,” said Mr. Jorrocks, rising from the ground, “I owes you a debt of gratitude that I can never wipe off—­you’ll be in the day-book and ledger of my memory for ever and a year.”

“Who are you?” inquired Nimrod, becoming more and more puzzled, as he contrasted his dialect with his dress.

“Who am I?  Why, I’m Mister Jorrocks.”

“Jorrocks, by Jove!  Who’d have thought it!  I declare I took you for a horse-marine.  Give us your hand, old boy.  I’m proud to make your acquaintance.”

“Ditto to you, sir, twice repeated.  I considers you the werry first man of the age!”—­and thereupon they shook hands with uncommon warmth.

“You’ve been in Paris, I suppose,” resumed Nimrod, after their respective digits were released; “were you much gratified with what you saw?  What pleased you most—­the Tuileries, Louvre, Garden of Plants, Pere la Chaise, Notre Dame, or what?”

“Why now, to tell you the truth, singular as it may seem, I saw nothing but the Tuileries and Naughty Dame.—­I may say a werry naughty dame, for she fleeced me uncommonly, scarcely leaving me a dump to carry me home.”

“What, you’ve been among the ladies, have you?  That’s gay for a man at your time of life.”

“Yes, I certainlie have been among the ladies,—­countesses I may say—­but, dash my vig, they are a rum set, and made me pay for their acquaintance.  The Countess Benwolio certainlie is a bad ’un.”

“Oh, the deuce!—­did that old devil catch you?” inquired Nimrod.

“Vot, do you know her?”

“Know her! ay—­everybody here knows her with her black boy.  She’s always on the road, and lives now by the flats she catches between Paris and the coast.  She was an agent for Morison’s Pills—­but having a fractious Scotch lodger that she couldn’t get out, she physicked him so dreadfully that he nearly died, and the police took her licence away.  But you are hungry, Mr. Jorrocks, come to my house and spend the evening, and tell me all about your travels.”

Mr. Stubbs objected to this proposition, having just learned that the London packet sailed in an hour, so the trio adjourned to Mr. Roberts’s, Royal Hotel, where over some strong eau-de-vie they cemented their acquaintance, and Mr. Jorrocks, finding that Nimrod was to be in England the following week, insisted upon his naming a day for dining in Great Coram Street.