After numerous discourses similar to the foregoing, they arrived at the end of the first stage on the road to the hunt, namely, the small town of Croydon, the rendezvous of London sportsmen.  The whole place was alive with red coats, green coats, blue coats, black coats, brown coats, in short, coats of all the colours of the rainbow.  Horsemen were mounting, horsemen were dismounting, one-horse “shays” and two-horse chaises were discharging their burdens, grooms were buckling on their masters’ spurs, and others were pulling off their overalls.  Eschewing the “Greyhound,” they turn short to the right, and make for the “Derby Arms” hunting stables.

Charley Morton, a fine old boy of his age, was buckling on his armour for the fight, for his soul, too, was “on fire, and eager for the chase.”  He was for the “venison”; and having mounted his “deer-stalker,” was speedily joined by divers perfect “swells,” in beautiful leathers, beautiful coats, beautiful tops, beautiful everything, except horses, and off they rode to cut in for the first course—­a stag-hunt on a Saturday being usually divided into three.

The ride down had somewhat sharpened Jorrocks’s appetite; and feeling, as he said, quite ready for his dinner, he repaired to Mr. Morton’s house—­a kind of sporting snuggery, everything in apple-pie order, and very good—­where he baited himself on sausages and salt herrings, a basin of new milk, with some “sticking powder” as he called it, alias rum, infused into it; and having deposited a half-quartern loaf in one pocket, as a sort of balance against a huge bunch of keys which rattled in the other, he pulled out his watch, and finding they had a quarter of an hour to spare, proposed to chaperon the Yorkshireman on a tour of the hunting stables.  Jorrocks summoned the ostler, and with great dignity led the way.  “Humph,” said he, evidently disappointed at seeing half the stalls empty, “no great show this morning—­pity—­gentleman come from a distance—­should like to have shown him some good nags.—­What sort of a devil’s this?” “Oh, sir, he’s a good ’un, and nothing but a good ’un!—­Leap!  Lord love ye, he’ll leap anything.  A railway cut, a windmill with the sails going, a navigable river with ships—­anything in short.  This is the ’orse wot took the line of houses down at Beddington the day they had the tremendious run from Reigate Hill.”  “And wot’s the grey in the far stall?” “Oh, that’s Mr. Pepper’s old nag—­Pepper-Caster as we call him, since he threw the old gemman, the morning they met at the ‘Leg-of-Mutton’ at Ashtead.  But he’s good for nothing.  Bless ye! his tail shakes for all the world like a pepper-box afore he’s gone half a mile.  Those be yours in the far stalls, and since they were turned round I’ve won a bob of a gemman who I bet I’d show him two ’osses with their heads vere their tails should be.[11] I always says,” added he with a leer, “that you rides the best ’osses of any gemman vot comes to our governor’s.”