give something to be a single man!” While he made these remarks, the boat ran up the harbour in good style, to the evident gratification of the multitude who lined the pier from end to end, and followed her in her passage.  “Ease her! stop her!” at last cried the captain, as she got opposite a low wooden guard-house, midway down the port.  A few strokes of the paddles sent her up to the quay, some ropes were run from each end of the guard-house down to the boat, within which space no one was admitted except about a dozen soldiers or custom-house officers—­in green coats, white trousers, black sugar-loaf “caps,” and having swords by their sides—­and some thick-legged fisherwomen, with long gold ear-rings, to lower the ladder for disembarkation.  The idlers, that is to say, all the inhabitants of Boulogne, range themselves outside the ropes on foot, horseback, in carriages, or anyhow, to take the chance of seeing someone they know, to laugh at the melancholy looks of those who have been sick, and to criticise the company, who are turned into the guarded space like a flock of sheep before them.

Mr. Jorrocks, having scaled the ladder, gave himself a hearty and congratulatory shake on again finding himself on terra firma, and sticking his hat jauntily on one side, as though he didn’t know what sea-sickness was, proceeded to run his eye along the spectators on one side of the ropes; when presently he was heard to exclaim, “My vig, there’s Thompson!  He owes us a hundred pounds, and has been doing these three years.”  And thereupon he bolted up to a fine looking young fellow—­with mustachios, in a hussar foraging cap stuck on one side of his head, dressed in a black velvet shooting-jacket, and with half a jeweller’s shop about him in the way of chains, brooches, rings and buttons—­who had brought a good-looking bay horse to bear with his chest against the cords.  “Thompson,” said Mr. Jorrocks, in a firm tone of voice, “how are you?” “How do ye do, Mister Jorrocks,” drawled out the latter, taking a cigar from his mouth, and puffing a cloud of smoke over the grocer’s head.  “Well, I’m werry well, but I should like to have a few moments’ conversation with you.”  “Would ye?” said Thompson, blowing another cloud.  “Yes, I would; you remember that ’ere little bill you got Simpkins to discount for you one day when I was absent; we have had it by us a long time now, and it is about time you were taking it up.”  “You think so, do you, Mister Jorrocks; can’t you renew it?  I’ll give you a draft on Aldgate pump for the amount.”  “Come, none of your funning with me, I’ve had enough of your nonsense:  give me my pewter, or I’ll have that horse from under you; for though it has got the hair rubbed off its near knee, it will do werry well to carry me with the Surrey occasionally.”  “You old fool,” said Thompson, “you forget where you are; if I could pay you your little bill, do you suppose I would be here?  You can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip, can ye?  But I’ll