Of course he required a companion, were it only to have some one to criticise the hounds with, so the evening before the appointed day, as the Yorkshireman was sitting in his old corner at the far end of the Piazza Coffee-room in Covent Garden, having just finished his second marrowbone and glass of white brandy, George—­the only waiter in the room with a name—­came smirking up with a card in his hand, saying, that the gentleman was waiting outside to speak with him.  It was a printed one, but the large round hand in which the address had been filled up, encroaching upon the letters, had made the name somewhat difficult to decipher.  At length he puzzled out “Mr. John Jorrocks—­Coram Street”; the name of the city house or shop in the corner (No.—­, St. Botolph’s Lane) being struck through with a pen.  “Oh, ask him to walk in directly,” said the Yorkshireman to George, who trotted off, and presently the flapping of the doors in the passage announced his approach, and honest Jorrocks came rolling up the room—­not like a fox-hunter, or any other sort of hunter, but like an honest wholesale grocer, fresh from the city.

“My dear fellow, I’m so glad to see you, you can’t think,” said he, advancing with both hands out, and hugging the Yorkshireman after the manner of a Polar bear.  “I have not time to stay one moment; I have to meet Mr. Wiggins at the corner of Bloomsbury Square at a quarter to six, and it wants now only seven minutes to,” casting his eye up at the clock over the sideboard.—­“I have just called to say that as you are fond of hunting, and all that sort of thing, if you have a mind for a day with the staghounds to-morrow, I will mount you same as before, and all that sort of thing—­you understand, eh?” “Thank you, my good friend,” said the Yorkshireman; “I have nothing to do to-morrow, and am your man for a stag-hunt.”  “That’s right, my good fellow,” said Jorrocks, “then I’ll tell you what do—­come and breakfast with me in Great Coram Street, at half-past seven to a minute.  I’ve got one of the first ’ams (hams) you ever clapt eyes on in the whole course of your memorable existence.—­Saw the hog alive myself—­sixteen score within a pound; must come—­know you like a fork breakfast—­dejeune a la fauchette, as we say in France, eh?  Like my Lord Mayor’s fool I guess, love what’s good; well, all right too—­so come without any ceremony—­us fox-hunters hates ceremony—­where there’s ceremony there’s no friendship.—­Stay—­I had almost forgotten,” added he, checking himself as he was on the point of departure.  “When you come, ring the area bell, and then Mrs. J——­ won’t hear; know you don’t like Mrs. J——­ no more than myself.”