Presently a loud long-protracted “rat-tat-tat-tat-tan, rat-tat-tat-tat-tan,” at the street door sounded through the house, and Jorrocks, with a slap on his thigh, exclaimed, “By Jingo! there’s Green.  No man knocks with such wigorous wiolence as he does.  All Great Coram Street and parts adjacent know when he comes.  Julius Caesar himself couldn’t kick up a greater row.”  “What Green is it, Green of Rollestone?” inquired Nimrod, thinking of his Leicestershire friend.  “No,” said Mr. Jorrocks, “Green of Tooley Street.  You’ll have heard of the Greens in the borough, ’emp, ’op, and ’ide (hemp, hop, and hide) merchants—­numerous family, numerous as the ’airs in my vig.  This is James Green, jun., whose father, old James Green, jun., verd antique, as I calls him, is the son of James Green, sen., who is in the ’emp line, and James is own cousin to young old James Green, sen., whose father is in the ’ide line.”  The remainder of the pedigree was lost by Benjamin throwing open the door and announcing Mr. Green; and Jemmy, who had been exchanging his cloth boots for patent-leather pumps, came bounding upstairs like a racket-ball.  “My dear Mrs. Jorrocks,” cried he, swinging through the company to her, “I’m delighted to see you looking so well.  I declare you are fifty per cent younger than you were.  Belinda, my love, ’ow are you?  Jorrocks, my friend, ’ow do ye do?”

“Thank ye, James,” said Jorrocks, shaking hands with him most cordially, “I’m werry well, indeed, and delighted to see you.  Now let me present you to Nimrod.”

“Ay, Nimrod!” said Green, in his usual flippant style, with a nod of his head, “’ow are ye, Nimrod?  I’ve heard of you, I think—­Nimrod Brothers and Co., bottle merchants, Crutched Friars, ain’t it?”

“No,” said Jorrocks, in an undertone with a frown—­Happerley Nimrod, the great sporting hauthor.”

“True,” replied Green, not at all disconcerted, “I’ve heard of him—­Nimrod—­the mighty ’unter before the lord.  Glad to see ye, Nimrod.  Stubbs, ’ow are ye?” nodding to the Yorkshireman, as he jerked himself on to a chair on the other side of Belinda.

As usual, Green was as gay as a peacock.  His curly flaxen wig projected over his forehead like the roof of a Swiss cottage, and his pointed gills were supported by a stiff black mohair stock, with a broad front and black frill confined with jet studs down the centre.  His coat was light green, with archery buttons, made very wide at the hips, with which he sported a white waistcoat, bright yellow ochre leather trousers, pink silk stockings, and patent-leather pumps.  In his hand he carried a white silk handkerchief, which smelt most powerfully of musk; and a pair of dirty wristbands drew the eye to sundry dashing rings upon his fingers.