(laughter).—­I say, it’s the sport of kings! the image of war without its guilt (hisses and immense laughter).  He would fearlessly propose a bumper toast—­he would give them ‘fox-hunting.’” There was some demur about drinking it, but on the interposition of Sam Spring, who assured the company that Jorrocks was one of the right sort, and with an addition proposed by Jerry Hawthorn, which made the toast more comprehensible, they swallowed it, and the chairman followed it up with “The Sod",—­which was drunk with great applause.  Mr. Cox of Blue Hammerton returned thanks.  “He considered cock-fighting the finest of all fine amusements.  Nothing could equal the rush between two prime grey-hackles—­that was his colour.  The chairman had said a vast for racing, and to cut the matter short, he might observe that cock-fighting combined all the advantages of making money, with the additional benefit of not being interfered with by the weather.  He begged to return his best thanks for himself and brother sods, and only regretted he had not been taught speaking in his youth, or he would certainly have convinced them all, that ‘cocking’ was the sport.”  “Coursing” was the next toast—­for which Arthur Pavis, the jockey, returned thanks.  “He was very fond of the ‘long dogs,’ and thought, after racing, coursing was the true thing.  He was no orator, and so he drank off his wine to the health of the company.”  “Steeplechasing” followed, for which Mr. Coalman of St. Albans returned thanks, assuring the company that it answered his purpose remarkably well.  Then the Vice gave the “Chair,” and the Chair gave the “Vice”; and by way of a finale, Mr. Badchild proposed the game of “Chicken-hazard,” observing in a whisper to Mr. Jorrocks, that perhaps he would like to subscribe to a joint-stock purse for the purpose of going to hell.  To which Mr. Jorrocks, with great gravity, replied; “Sir, I’m d——­d if I do.”

VI.  A WEEK AT CHELTENHAM:  THE CHELTENHAM DANDY

Mr. Jorrocks had been very poorly indeed of indigestion, as he calls it, produced by tucking in too much roast beef and plum pudding at Christmas, and prolonging the period of his festivities a little beyond the season allowed by Moore’s Almanack, and having in vain applied the usual remedies prescribed on such occasions, he at length consented to try the Cheltenham waters, though altogether opposed to the element, he not having “astonished his stomach,” as he says, for the last fifteen years with a glass of water.

Having established himself and the Yorkshireman in a small private lodging in High Street, consisting of two bedrooms and a sitting-room, he commenced his visits to the royal spa, and after a few good drenches, picked up so rapidly, that to whatever inn they went to dine, the landlords and waiters were astounded at the consumption of prog, and in a very short time he was known from the “Royal Hotel” down to Hurlston’s Commercial Inn, as the great London