“Well, Mr. Jorrocks, it’s long since we met,” said Brackenbury, looking me over—­“never, I think, since I showed you way over the Weald of Sussex from Torrington Wood, on the gallant wite with the Colonel’s ’ounds!  Ah, those were rare days, Mr. Jorrocks! we shall never see their like again!  But you’re looking fresh.  Time lays a light hand on your bearing-reins!  I hope it will be long ere you are booked by the Gravesend Buss.  You don’t lush much, I fancy?” added he, putting a lighted cigar in his mouth.  “Yes, I does,” said I—­“a good deal; but I tells you what, Brackenbury, I doesn’t fumigate none—­it’s the fumigation that does the mischief,” and thereupon we commenced a hargument on the comparitive mischief of smoking and drinking, which ended without either being able to convince the other.  “Well, at all events, you gets beefey, Brackenbury,” said I; “you must be a couple of stone heavier than when we used to talliho the ’ounds together.  I think I could lead you over the Weald now, at all ewents if the fences were out of the way,” for I must confess that Brack was always a terrible chap at the jumps, and could go where few would follow.

We did the journey within the six hours—­werry good work, considering the load and the state of the roads.  No coach like the “Age”—­in my opinion.  I was so werry much pleased with Brack’s driving, that I presented him with a four-in-hand whip.

I put up at Jonathan Boxall’s, the Star and Garter, one of the pleasantest and best-conducted houses in all Brighton.  It is close to the sea, and just by Mahomed, the sham-poor’s shop.  I likes Jonathan, for he is a sportsman, and we spin a yarn together about ’unting, and how he used to ride over the moon when he whipped in to St. John, in Berkshire.  But it’s all talk with Jonathan now, for he’s more like a stranded grampus now than a fox-hunter.  In course I brought down a pair of kickseys and pipe-cases, intending to have a round with the old muggers, but the snow put a stop to all that.  I heard, however, that both the Telscombe Tye and the Devil’s Dike dogs had been running their half-crown rounds after hares, some of which ended in “captures,” others in “escapes,” as the newspapers terms them.  I dined at the Albion on Christmas Day, and most misfortunately, my appetite was ready before the joints, so I had to make my dinner off Mary Ann cutlets, I think they call them, that is to say, chops screwed up in large curl papers, and such-like trifles.  I saw some chaps drinking small glasses of stuff, so I asked the waiter what it was, and, thinking he said “Elixir of Girls,” I banged the table, and said, “Elixir of Girls! that’s the stuff for my money—­give me a glass.”  The chap laughed, and said, “Not Girls, sir, but Garus”; and thereupon he gave another great guffaw.