“That’s a pity,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, with one of his benevolent looks.  “But ’ow comes it, James, you are not married?  You are not a bouy now, and should be looking out for a home of your own.”  “True, my dear J——­, true,” replied Mr. Green; “and I’ll tell you wot, our principal book-keeper and I have made many calculations on the subject, and being a man of literature like yourself, he gave it as his opinion the last time we talked the matter over, that it would only be avoiding Silly and running into Crab-beds; which I presume means Quod or the Bench.  Unless he can have a wife ‘made to order,’ he says he’ll never wed.  Besides, the women are such a bothersome encroaching set.  I declare I’m so pestered with them that I don’t know vich vay to turn.  They are always tormenting of me.  Only last week one sent me a specification of what she’d marry me for, and I declare her dress, alone, came to more than I have to find myself in clothes, ball-and concert-tickets, keep an ’oss, go to theatres, buy lozenges, letter-paper, and everything else with.  There were bumbazeens, and challies, and merinos, and crape, and gauze, and dimity, and caps, bonnets, stockings, shoes, boots, rigids, stays, ringlets; and, would you believe it, she had the unspeakable audacity to include a bustle!  It was the most monstrous specification and proposal I ever read, and I returned it by the twopenny post, axing her if she hadn’t forgotten to include a set of false teeth.  Still, I confess, I’m tired of Tooley Street.  I feel that I have a soul above hemp, and was intended for a brighter sphere; but vot can one do, cooped up at home without men of henergy for companions?  No prospect of improvement either; for I left our old gentleman alarmingly well just now, pulling about the flax and tow, as though his dinner depended upon his exertions.  I think if the women would let me alone, I might have some chance, but it worries a man of sensibility and refinement to have them always tormenting of one.—­I’ve no objection to be led, but, dash my buttons, I von’t be driven.”  “Certainly not,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, with great gravity, jingling the silver in his breeches-pocket.  “It’s an old saying, James, and times proves it true, that you may take an ’oss to the water but you carn’t make him drink—­and talking of ’osses, pray, how are you off in that line?” “Oh, werry well—­uncommon, I may say—­a thoroughbred, bang tail down to the hocks, by Phantom, out of Baron Munchausen’s dam—­gave a hatful of money for him at Tatts’.—­five fives—­a deal of tin as times go.  But he’s a perfect ’oss, I assure you—­bright bay with four black legs, and never a white hair upon him.  He’s touched in the vind, but that’s nothing—­I’m not a fox-hunter, you know, Mr. Jorrocks; besides, I find the music he makes werry useful in the streets, as a warning to the old happle women to get out of the way.  Pray, sir,” turning to the Yorkshireman with a jerk, “do you dance?”—­as the boat band, consisting of a harp, a flute, a lute, a long horn, and a short horn, struck up a quadrille,—­and, without waiting for a reply, our hero sidled past, and glided among the crowd that covered the deck.