“Well, then, I’ll take your bet of a hat,” replied the youth, “that he is not what I call a gentleman.”

Jorrocks. I don’t know what you calls a gentleman.  I’ll lay you a hat, a guinea one, either white or black, whichever you like, but none o’ your dog hairs or gossamers, mind—­that he’s a man of dibs, and doesn’t follow no trade or calling, and if that isn’t a gentleman, I don’t know wot is.  What say you, Mr. York?

“Suppose we put it thus—­You bet this gentleman a hat that he’s a Meltonian, which will comprise all the rest.”

Jorrocks. Werry well put.  Do you take me, sir?  A guinea hat against a guinea hat.

“I do,” said the youth.

Jorrocks. Then DONE—­now ring the bell for the waiter—­I’ll pump him.

Enter waiter.

Jorrocks. Snuff them candles, if you please, and bring me another bottom o’ brandy-cold, without—­and, waiter! here, pray who is that gentleman that came in by the Liverpool coach to-night?  The little gentleman in long black gaiters who sat in this chair, you know, and had some brandy-and-water.

Waiter. I know who you mean, sir, quite well, the gentleman who’s gone to bed.  Let me see, what’s his name?  He keeps that large Hotel in——­ Street, Liverpool—­what’s the—­Here an immense burst of laughter drowned the remainder of the sentence.

Jorrocks rose in a rage.  “No! you double-distilled blockhead,” said he, “no such thing—­you’re thinking of someone else.  The gentleman hunts at Melton Mowbray, and travels in his own carriage.”

Waiter.  I don’t know nothing about Melton Mowbray, sir, but the last time he came through here on his road to Bristol, he was in one of his own rattle-trap yellows, and had such a load—­his wife, a nurse, and eight children inside; himself, his son, and an apple-tree on the dickey—­that the horses knocked up half-way and...

Jorrocks.  Say no more—­say no more—­d——­n his teeth and toe-nails—­and that’s swearing—­a thing I never do but on the most outrageous occasions.  Confounded humbug, I’ll be upsides with him, however.  Waiter, bring the bill and no more brandy.  Never was so done in all my life—­a gammonacious fellow!  “There, sir, there’s your one pound one,” said he, handing a sovereign and a shilling to the winner of the hat.  “Give me my tile, and let’s mizzle.—­Waiter, I can’t wait; must bring the bill up to my lodgings in the morning if it isn’t ready.—­Come away, come away—­I shall never get over this as long as ever I live.  ‘Live and let live,’ indeed! no wonder he stuck up for the innkeepers—­a publican and a sinner as he is.  Good night, gentlemen, good night.”

Exit Jorrocks.

VII.  AQUATICS:  MR. JORROCKS AT MARGATE