So saying he linked arms, and pursuing our course at a proper kill-time sort of pace, we were at length brought up at the end of Vere Street, along which there was a regular rush of carriages, cutting away as if they were going to a fire instead of to a finery shop.

Many were the smiles, and bows, and nods, and finger kisses, and bright eyes, and sweet glances, that the fair flyers shot at our friend as they darted past.  We were lost in astonishment at the sight.  ‘Verily,’ said we, ‘but the old man was right.  This is an am_aa_zin’ instance of a pop’lar man.’

Young Puffington was then in the heyday of youth, about one-and-twenty or so, fair-haired, fresh-complexioned, slim, and standing, with the aid of high-heeled boots, little under six feet high.  He had taken after his mother, not after old Tom Trodgers, as they called his papa.  At length we crossed over Oxford Street, and taking the shady side of Bond Street, were quickly among the real swells of the world—­men who crawled along as if life was a perfect burden to them—­men with eye-glasses fixed and tasselled canes in their hands, scarcely less ponderous than those borne by the footmen.  Great Heavens! but they were tight, and smart, and shiny; and Puffington was just as tight, and smart, and shiny as any of them.  He was as much in his element here as he appeared to be out of it in Oxford Street.  It might be prejudice, or want of penetration on our part, but we thought he looked as high-bred as any of them.  They all seemed to know each other, and the nodding, and winking, and jerking, began as soon as we got across.  Puff kindly acted as cicerone, or we should not have been aware of the consequence we were encountering.

‘Well, Jemmy!’ exclaimed a debauched-looking youth to our friend, ’how are you?—­breakfasted yet?’

‘Going to,’ replied Puffington, whom they called Jemmy because his name was Tommy.

‘That,’ said he, in an undertone, ’is a capital fellow—­Lord Legbail, eldest son of the Marquis of Loosefish—­will be Lord Loosefish.  We were at the Finish together till six this morning—­such fun!—­bonneted a Charley, stole his rattle, and broke an early breakfast-man’s stall all to shivers.’  Just then up came a broad-brimmed hat, above a confused mass of greatcoats and coloured shawls.

‘Holloa, Jack!’ exclaimed Mr. Puffington, laying hold of a mother-of-pearl button nearly as large as a tart-plate, ‘not off yet?’

‘Just going,’ replied Jack, with a touch of his hat, as he rolled on, adding, ‘want aught down the road?’

‘What coachman is that?’ asked we.

‘Coachman!’ replied Puff, with a snort.  ’That’s Jack Linchpin—­Honourable Jack Linchpin—­son of Lord Splinterbars—­best gentleman coachman in England.’

So Puffington sauntered along, good morninging ‘Sir Harrys’ and ’Sir Jameses,’ and ‘Lord Johns’ and ‘Lord Toms,’ till, seeing a batch of irreproachable dandies flattening their noses against the windows of the Sailors’ Old Club, in whose eyes, he perhaps thought, our city coat and country gaiters would not find much favour, he gave us a hasty parting squeeze of the arm and bolted into Long’s just as a mountainous hackney-coach was rumbling between us and them.