Jorrocks. I don't know what you calls a gentleman. I'll lay you a hat, a guinea one, either white or black, whichever you like, but none o' your dog hairs or gossamers, mind—that he's a man of dibs, and doesn't follow no trade or calling, and if that isn't a gentleman, I don't know wot is. What say you, Mr. York?
"Suppose we put it thus—You bet this gentleman a hat that he's a Meltonian, which will comprise all the rest."
Jorrocks. Werry well put. Do you take me, sir? A guinea hat against a guinea hat.
"I do," said the youth.
Jorrocks. Then DONE—now ring the bell for the waiter—I'll pump him.
Enter waiter.
Jorrocks. Snuff them candles, if you please, and bring me another bottom o' brandy-cold, without—and, waiter! here, pray who is that gentleman that came in by the Liverpool coach to-night? The little gentleman in long black gaiters who sat in this chair, you know, and had some brandy-and-water.
Waiter. I know who you mean, sir, quite well, the gentleman who's gone to bed. Let me see, what's his name? He keeps that large Hotel in—— Street, Liverpool—what's the—Here an immense burst of laughter drowned the remainder of the sentence.
Jorrocks rose in a rage. "No! you double-distilled blockhead," said he, "no such thing—you're thinking of someone else. The gentleman hunts at Melton Mowbray, and travels in his own carriage."
Waiter. I don't know nothing about Melton Mowbray, sir, but the last time he came through here on his road to Bristol, he was in one of his own rattle-trap yellows, and had such a load—his wife, a nurse, and eight children inside; himself, his son, and an apple-tree on the dickey—that the horses knocked up half-way and...