“Jorrocks!” at length said I, taking him by the hand, “how are you, my old boy?” He started at the sound of his name.  “Jorrocks,” said he, “who’s that?” “Why, the Yorkshireman; you surely have not forgotten your old friend and companion in a hundred fights!”

Jorrocks. Oh, Mr. York, it’s you, is it?  Much obliged by your inquiries, but I’m drowned.

Yorkshireman. Aye, but you are coming round, you’ll be better before long.

Jorrocks. Never!  Don’t try to gammon me.  You know as well as I do that I’m drowned, and a drowned man never recovers.  No, no, it’s all up with me, I feel.  Set down, however, while I say a few words to you.  You’re a good fellow, and I’ve remembered you in my will, which you’ll find in the strong port-wine-bin, along with nine pounds secret service money.  I hopes you’ll think the legacy a fat one.  I meant it as such.  If you marry Belinda, I have left you a third of my fourth in the tea trade.  Always said you were cut out for a grocer.  Let Tat sell my stud.  An excellent man, Tat—­proudish perhaps—­at least, he never inwites me to none of his dinners—­but still a werry good man.  Let him sell them, I say, and mind give Snapdragon a charge or two of shot before he goes to the ’ammer, to prevent his roaring.  Put up a plain monument to my memory—­black or white marble, whichever’s cheapest—­but mind, no Cupids or seraphums, or none of those sort of things—­quite plain—­with just this upon it—­Hic jacet Jorrocks. And now I’ll give you a bit of news.  Neptune has appointed me huntsman to his pack of haddocks.  Have two dolphins for my own riding, and a young lobster to look after them.  Lord Farebrother whips in to me—­he rides a turtle.  “And now, my good friend,” said he, grasping my hands with redoubled energy, “do you think you could accomplish me a rump-steak and oyster sauce?—­also a pot of stout?—­but, mind, blow the froth off the top, for it’s bad for the kidneys!”

THE END