mail, followed closely by the Baron, and after depositing the cloak inside, so that the Baron might ride with his “face to the horses,” as the saying is, he turned the knapsack into the hind boot, and swung himself into the office till it was time to ask for something for his exertions.  Meanwhile the Baron made a tour of the yard, taking a lesson in English from the lettering on the various coaches, when, on the hind boot of one, he deciphered the word Cheapside.—­“Ah, Cheapside!” said he, pulling out his dictionary and turning to the letter C.  “Chaste, chat, chaw,—­cheap, dat be it.  Cheap,—­to be had at a low price—­small value.  Ah!  I hev (have) it,” said he, stamping and knitting his brows, “sacre-e-e-e-e nom de Dieu,” and the first word being drawn out to its usual longitude, three strides brought him and the conclusion of the oath into the office together.  He then opened out upon the book-keeper, in a tremendous volley of French, English and Hanoverian oaths, for he was a cross between the first and last named countries, the purport of which was “dat he had paid de best price, and he be dem if he vod ride on de Cheapside of de coach.”  In vain the clerks and book-keepers tried to convince him he was wrong in his interpretation.  With the full conviction of a foreigner that he was about to be cheated, he had his cloak shifted to the opposite side of the coach, and the knapsack placed on the roof.  The fourth inside having cast up, the outside passengers mounted, the insides took their places, three-pences and sixpences were pulled out for the porters, the guard twanged his horn, the coachman turned out his elbow, flourished his whip, caught the point, cried “All right! sit tight!” and trotted out of the yard.

Jorrocks and the Yorkshireman sat opposite each other, the Baron and old Sam Spring, the betting man, did likewise.  Who doesn’t know old Sam, with his curious tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, his old drab hat turned up with green, careless neckcloth, flowing robe, and comical cut?  He knew Jorrocks—­though—­tell it not in Coram Street, he didn’t know his name; but concluded from the disparity of age between him and his companion, that Jorrocks was either a shark or a shark’s jackal, and the Yorkshireman a victim.  With due professional delicacy, he contented himself with scrutinising the latter through his specs.  The Baron’s choler having subsided, he was the first to break the ice of silence.  “Foine noight,” was the observation, which was thrown out promiscuously to see who would take it up.  Now Sam Spring, though he came late, had learned from the porter that there was a Baron in the coach, and being a great admirer of the nobility, for whose use he has a code of signals of his own, consisting of one finger to his hat for a Baron Lord as he calls them, two for a Viscount, three for an Earl, four for a Marquis, and the whole hand for a Duke, he immediately responded with “Yes, my lord,” with a fore-finger to his hat.  There is something sweet