“Bid me discourse,”

in notes, compared to which the screaming of a peacock would be perfect melody.  Mr. Jorrocks having taken a conspicuous position, applauded long, loudly, and warmly, at every pause—­approbation the more deserved and disinterested, inasmuch as the worthy gentleman suffers considerably from music, and only knows two tunes, one of which, he says, “is God save the King, and the other isn’t.”

Having seen his protege fairly under way, Mr. Jorrocks gave him a hint that he would return to the “White Hart,” and have supper ready by the time he was done; accordingly the Yorkshireman and he withdrew along an avenue politely formed by the separation of the company, who applauded as they passed.

An imperial quart and a half of Mr. Creed’s stoutest draft port, with the orthodox proportion of lemon, cloves, sugar, and cinnamon, had almost boiled itself to perfection under the skilful superintendence of Mr. Jorrocks, on the coffee-room fire, and a table had been handsomely decorated with shrimps, lobsters, broiled bones, fried ham, poached eggs, when just as the clock had finished striking eleven, the coffee-room door opened with a rush, and in tripped Jemmy Green with his hands crammed full of packages, and his trousers’ pockets sticking out like a Dutch burgomaster’s.  “Vell, I’ve done ’em brown to-night, I think,” said he, depositing his hat and half a dozen packages on the sideboard, and running his fingers through his curls to make them stand up.  “I’ve won nine lotteries, and left one undrawn when I came away, because it did not seem likely to fill.  Let me see,” said he, emptying his pockets,—­“there is the beautiful rosewood box that I won, ven you was there; the next was a set of crimping-irons, vich I von also; the third was a jockey-vip, which I did not want and only stood one ticket for and lost; the fourth was this elegant box, with a view of Margate on the lid; then came these six sherry labels with silver rims; a snuff-box with an inwisible mouse; a coral rattle with silver bells; a silk yard measure in a walnut-shell; a couple of West India beetles; a humming-bird in a glass case, which I lost; and then these dozen bodkins with silver eyes—­so that altogether I have made a pretty good night’s work of it.  Kitey Graves wasn’t in great force, so after I had sung Bid me Discourse, and I’d be a Butterfly, I cut my stick and went to the hopposition shop, where they used me much more genteelly; giving me three tickets for a song, and introducing me in more flattering terms to the company—­don’t like being considered one of the nasty ‘reglars,’ and they should make a point of explaining that one isn’t.  Besides, what business had Kitey to say anything about Bagnigge Vells? a hass!—­Now, perhaps, you’ll favour me with some supper.”

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, patting Jemmy approvingly on the head—­“you deserve some.  It’s only no song, no supper, and you’ve been singing like a nightingale;” thereupon they set to with vigorous determination.