horse would go. "Why,
what a concern he's in", said another, "why, the old man's mad,
surely".--"He's good for a subscription," added another, addressing him.
"I say, Jorrocks, old boy, you'll give us ten pound for our hounds
won't you?--that's a good fellow." "Oh yes, Jorrocks promised us a
subscription last year," observed another, "and he is a man of his
word--arn't you old leather breeches?" "No, gentlemen," said Jorrocks,
standing up in the fire-engine, and sticking the whip into its nest,
"I really cannot--I wish I could, but I really cannot afford it. Times
really are so bad, and I have my own pack to subscribe to, and I must
be 'just before I am generous.'" "Oh, but ten pounds is nothing in your
way, you know, Jorrocks--adulterate a chest of tea. Old----here will
give you all the leaves off his ash-trees." "No," said Jorrocks,
"I really cannot--ten pounds is ten pounds, and I must cut my coat
according to my cloth." "By Jove, but you must have had plenty of cloth
when you cut that coat you've got on, old boy. Why there's as much cloth
in the laps as would make a pair of horse-sheets." "Never mind," said
Jorrocks, "I wear it, and not you." "Now," said Jorrocks in an undertone
to the Yorkshireman, "you see what an unconscionable set of dogs these
stag-'unters are. They're at every man for a subscription, and talk
about guineas as if they grew upon gooseberry-bushes. Besides, they are
such a rubbishing set--all drafts from the fox'ounds.--Now there's a
chap on a piebald just by the trees--he goes into the _Gazette_ reglarly
once in three years, and yet to see him out, you'd fancy all the country
round belonged to him. And there's a buck with his bearing-rein so tight
that he can hardly move his neck," pointing to a gentleman in scarlet,
with a tremendous stiff blue cravat--"he lives by keeping a mad-house
and being werry high, consequential sort of a cock, they calls him the
'Lord High Keeper!'--I'll tell ye a joke about that fellow," said he,
pointing to a man alighting from a red-wheeled buggy--"he's a werry
shabby screw, and is always trying to save a penny.--Well, he hires a
young half-witted hawbuck for a servant, who didn't clean his boots to
his liking, so he began reading the Riot Act one day, and concluded by
saying, 'I'm blowed if I couldn't clean them better myself with a little
pump-water.'--The next day, up came the boots duller than ever.--'Bless
my soul,' exclaimed he, 'why, they are worse than before