"Owe you anything! yes, I does," said Mr. Jorrocks, rising from the ground, "I owes you a debt of gratitude that I can never wipe off—you'll be in the day-book and ledger of my memory for ever and a year."
"Who are you?" inquired Nimrod, becoming more and more puzzled, as he contrasted his dialect with his dress.
"Who am I? Why, I'm Mister Jorrocks."
"Jorrocks, by Jove! Who'd have thought it! I declare I took you for a horse-marine. Give us your hand, old boy. I'm proud to make your acquaintance."
"Ditto to you, sir, twice repeated. I considers you the werry first man of the age!"—and thereupon they shook hands with uncommon warmth.
"You've been in Paris, I suppose," resumed Nimrod, after their respective digits were released; "were you much gratified with what you saw? What pleased you most—the Tuileries, Louvre, Garden of Plants, Père la Chaise, Notre Dame, or what?"
"Why now, to tell you the truth, singular as it may seem, I saw nothing but the Tuileries and Naughty Dame.—I may say a werry naughty dame, for she fleeced me uncommonly, scarcely leaving me a dump to carry me home."
"What, you've been among the ladies, have you? That's gay for a man at your time of life."
"Yes, I certainlie have been among the ladies,—countesses I may say—but, dash my vig, they are a rum set, and made me pay for their acquaintance. The Countess Benwolio certainlie is a bad 'un."
"Oh, the deuce!—did that old devil catch you?" inquired Nimrod.