trim, and water-tight, manned by his own maternal uncle, was going to cut away to London at three o’clock, and would land him before he could say “Jack Robinson.”  Mr. Jorrocks jumped at the offer, and forthwith attiring himself in a pair of Mr. Creed’s loose inexpressibles, over which he drew his Hessian boots, he tucked the hamper containing the knuckle of veal and other etceteras under one arm, and the bunch of sea-weed he had been busy collecting, instead of watching his clothes, under the other, and, followed by his friends, made direct for the vessel.

Everybody knows, or ought to know, what a hoy is—­it is a large sailing-boat, sometimes with one deck, sometimes with none; and the Unity, trading in bulky goods, was of the latter description, though there was a sort of dog-hole at the stern, which the master dignified by the name of a “state cabin,” into which he purposed putting Mr. Jorrocks, if the weather should turn cold before they arrived.  The wind, however, he said, was so favourable, and his cargo—­“timber and fruit,” as he described it, that is to say, broomsticks and potatoes—­so light, that he warranted landing him at Blackwall at least by ten o’clock, where he could either sleep, or get a short stage or an omnibus on to Leadenhall Street.  The vessel looked anything but tempting, neither was the captain’s appearance prepossessing, still Mr. Jorrocks, all things considered, thought he would chance it; and depositing his hamper and sea-weed, and giving special instructions about having his pantaloons cried in the morning—­recounting that besides the silver, and eighteen-pence in copper, there was a steel pencil-case with “J.J.” on the seal at the top, an anonymous letter, and two keys—­he took an affectionate leave of his friends, and stepped on board, the vessel was shoved off and stood out to sea.

Monday morning drew the cockneys from their roosts betimes, to take their farewell splash and dive in the sea.  As the day advanced, the bustle and confusion on the shore and in the town increased, and everyone seemed on the move.  The ladies paid their last visits to the bazaars and shell shops, and children extracted the last ounce of exertion from the exhausted leg-weary donkeys.  Meanwhile the lords of the creation strutted about, some in dressing-gowns, others, “full puff,” with bags and boxes under their arms—­while sturdy porters were wheeling barrows full of luggage to the jetty.  The bell-man went round dressed in a blue and red cloak, with a gold hatband.  Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong, went the bell, and the gaping cockneys congregated around.  He commenced—­“To be sould in the market-place a quantity of fresh ling.”  Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding, dong:  “The Royal Adelaide, fast and splendid steam-packet, Capt.  Whittingham, will leave the pier this morning at nine o’clock precisely, and land the passengers at London Bridge Steam-packet Wharf—­fore cabin fares and children four shillings—­saloon