[Footnote 10:  Where the carrion is, there will be the crow, and on the demise of the “Surrey staggers,” Charley brushed off to the west, to valet the gentlemen’s hunters that attend the Royal Stag Hunt.—­Vide Sir F. Grant’s picture of the meet of the Royal Staghounds.]

“You’re for Jolliffe, I suppose,” said the gentleman with the bill, to another with a blue coat and buff lining.  “He’s at Chipstead Church—­only six miles from Croydon, a sure find and good country.”  “What are you for, Mr. Jorrocks?” inquired another in green, with black velvet breeches, Hessian boots, and a red waistcoat, who just rode up.  “My own, to be sure,” said Jorrocks, taking hold of the green collar of his coat, as much as to say, “How can you ask such a question?” “Oh, no,” said the gentleman in green, “Come to the stag—­much better sport—­sure of a gallop—­open country—­get it over soon—­back in town before the post goes out.”  Before Mr. Jorrocks had time to make a reply to this last interrogatory, they were overtaken by another horseman, who came hopping along at a sort of a butcher’s shuffle, on a worn-out, three-legged, four-cornered hack, with one eye, a rat-tail, and a head as large as a fiddle-case.—­“Who’s for the blue mottles?” said he, casting a glance at their respective coats, and at length fixing it on the Yorkshireman.  “Why, Dickens, you’re not going thistle-whipping with that nice ’orse of yours,” said the gentleman in the velvets; “come and see the stag turned out—­sure of a gallop—­no hedges—­soft country—­plenty of publics—­far better sport, man, than pottering about looking for your foxes and hares, and wasting your time; take my advice, and come with me.”  “But,” says Dickens, “my ’orse won’t stand it; I had him in the shay till eleven last night, and he came forty-three mile with our traveller the day before, else he’s a ’good ‘un to go,’ as you know.  Do you remember the owdacious leap he took over the tinker’s tent, at Epping ’Unt, last Easter?  How he astonished the natives within!” “Yes; but then, you know, you fell head-foremost through the canvas, and no wonder your ugly mug frightened them,” replied he of the velvets.  “Ay; but that was in consequence of my riding by balance instead of gripping with my legs,” replied Dickens; “you see, I had taken seven lessons in riding at the school in Bidborough Street, Burton Crescent, and they always told me to balance myself equally on the saddle, and harden my heart, and ride at whatever came in the way; and the tinker’s tent coming first, why, naturally enough, I went at it.  But I have had some practice since then, and, of course, can stick on better.  I have ’unted regularly ever since, and can ‘do the trick’ now.”  “What, summer and winter?” said Jorrocks.  “No,” replied he, “but I have ’unted regularly every fifth Saturday since the ’unting began.”