er, he
had time to recover his surprise, all the passengers having entered the
roped area, one of the green-coated gentry gave him a polite twist
by the coat-tail, and with a wave of the hand and bend of his body,
beckoned him to proceed with the crowd into the guard-house. After
passing an outer room, they entered the bureau by a door in the middle
of a wooden partition, where two men were sitting with pens ready to
enter the names of the arrivers in ledgers.

"Votre nom et designation?" said one of them to Mr. Jorrocks--who, with
a bad start, had managed to squeeze in first--to which Mr. Jorrocks
shook his head. "Sare, what's your name, sare?" inquired the same
personage. "JORROCKS," was the answer, delivered with great emphasis,
and thereupon the secretary wrote "Shorrock." "--Monsieur Shorrock,"
said he, looking up, "votre profession, Monsieur? Vot you are, sare?" "A
grocer," replied Mr. Jorrocks, which caused a titter from those behind
who meant to sink the shop. "Marchand-Epicier," wrote the bureau-keeper.
"Quel age avez-vous, Monsieur? How old you are, sare?" "Two pound
twelve," replied Mr. Jorrocks, surprised at his inquisitiveness. "No,
sare, not vot monnay you have, sare, hot old you are, sare." "Well, two
pound twelve, fifty-two in fact." Mr. Jorrocks was then passed out,
to take his chance among the touts and commissionaires of the
various hotels, who are enough to pull passengers to pieces in their
solicitations for custom. In Boulogne, however, no man with money is
ever short of friends; and Thompson having given the hint to two
or three acquaintances as he rode up street, there were no end of
broken-down sportsmen, levanters, and gentlemen who live on the interest
of what they owe other people, waiting to receive Mr. Jorrocks. The
greetings on their parts were most cordial and enthusiastic, and even
some who were in his books did not hesitate to hail him; the majority of
the party, however, was composed of those with whom he had at various
tunes and places enjoyed the sports of the field, but whom he had never
missed until they met at Boulogne.

Their inquiries were business-like and familiar:--"are ye, Jorrocks?"
cried one, holding out both hands. "How are ye, my lad of wax? Do you
still play billiards?--Give you nine, and play you for a Nap." "Come
to my house this evening, old boy, and take a hand at whist for old
acquaintance sake," urged the friend on his left; "got some rare
cogniac, and a box of