The floor was half an inch thick, at least, with dirt, and was sprinkled with rice, currants, and raisins, as though they had been scattered for the purpose of growing.  A small corner seemed to have been cut off, like the fold of a Leicestershire grazing-ground, and made into an office in the centre of which was a square or two of glass that commanded a view of the whole warehouse.  “Is Mr. Jorrocks in?” inquired the Yorkshireman of a porter, who was busy digging currants with a wooden spade.  “Yes, sir, you’ll find him in the counting-house,” was the answer; but on looking in, though his hat and gloves were there, no Jorrocks was visible.  At the farther end of the warehouse a man in his shirt-sleeves, with a white apron round his waist and a brown paper cap on his head, was seen under a very melancholy-looking skylight, holding his head over something, as if his nose were bleeding.  The Yorkshireman groped his way up to him, and asking if Mr. Jorrocks was in, found he was addressing the grocer himself.  He had been leaning over a large trayful of little white cups—­with teapots to match—­trying the strength, flavour, and virtue of a large purchase of tea, and the beverage was all smoking before him.  “My vig,” exclaimed he, holding out his hand, “who’d have thought of seeing you in the city, this is something unkimmon!  However, you’re werry welcome in St. Botolph Lane, and as this is your first wisit, why, I’ll make you a present of some tea—­wot do you drink?—­black or green, or perhaps both—­four pounds of one and two of t’other.  Here, Joe!” summoning his foreman, “put up four pounds of that last lot of black that came in, and two pounds of superior green, and this gentleman will tell you where to leave it.—­And when do you think of starting?” again addressing the Yorkshireman—­“egad this is fine weather for the country—­have half a mind to have a jaunt myself—­makes one quite young—­feel as if I’d laid full fifty years aside, and were again a boy—­when did you say you start?” “Why, I don’t know exactly,” replied the Yorkshireman, “the weather’s so fine that I’m half tempted to go round by Newmarket.”  “Newmarket!” exclaimed Jorrocks, throwing his arm in the air, while his paper cap fell from his head with the jerk—­“by Newmarket! why, what in the name of all that’s impure, have you to do at Newmarket?”

“Why, nothing in particular; only, when there’s neither hunting nor shooting going on, what is a man to do with himself?—­I’m sure you’d despise me if I were to go fishing.”  “True,” observed Mr. Jorrocks somewhat subdued, and jingling the silver in his breeches-pocket.  “Fox-’unting is indeed the prince of sports.  The image of war, without its guilt, and only half its danger.  I confess that I’m a martyr to it—­a perfect wictim—­no one knows wot I suffer from my ardour.—­If ever I’m wisited with the last infirmity of noble minds, it will be caused by my ingovernable passion for the chase.  The sight of a saddle makes me sweat.  An ’ound