turns up and down the coffee-room, ere George the waiter came to say that a gentleman waited outside.  Putting on his hat and taking a coat over his arm, he turned out; when just before the door he saw a man muffled up in a great military cloak, and a glazed hat, endeavouring to back a nondescript double-bodied carriage (with lofty mail box-seats and red wheels), close to the pavement.  “Who-ay, who-ay,” said he, “who-ay, who-ay, horse!” at the same time jerking at his mouth.  As the Yorkshireman made his exit, a pair eyes of gleamed through the small aperture between the high cloak collar and the flipe of the glazed hat, which he instantly recognised to belong to Jorrocks.  “Why, what the deuce is this you are in?” said he, looking at the vehicle.  “Jump up,” said Jorrocks, “and I’ll tell you all about it,” which having done, and the machine being set in motion he proceeded to relate the manner in which he had exchanged his cruelty-van for it—­by the way, as arrant a bone-setter as ever unfortunate got into, but which he, with the predilection all men have for their own, pronounced to be a “monstrous nice carriage.”  On their turning off the rough pavement on to the quiet smooth Macadamised road leading to Waterloo Bridge, his dissertation was interrupted by a loud horse-laugh raised by two or three toll-takers and boys lounging about the gate.

“I say, Tom, twig this ’ere machine,” said one.  “Dash my buttons, I never seed such a thing in all my life.”  “What’s to pay?” inquired Jorrocks, pulling up with great dignity, their observations not having penetrated the cloak collar which encircled his ears.  “To pay!” said the toll-taker—­“vy, vot do ye call your consarn?” “Why, a phaeton,” said Jorrocks.  “My eyes! that’s a good ’un,” said another.  “I say, Jim—­he calls this ’ere thing a phe-a-ton!” “A phe-a-ton!—­vy, it’s more like a fire-engine,” said Jim.  “Don’t be impertinent,” said Jorrocks, who had pulled down his collar to hear what he had to pay—­“but tell me what’s to pay?” “Vy, it’s a phe-a-ton drawn by von or more ’orses,” said the toll-taker; “and containing von or more asses,” said Tom.  “Sixpence-halfpenny, sir,” “You are a saucy fellow,” said Jorrocks.  “Thank ye, master, you’re another,” said the toll-taker; “and now that you have had your say, vot do ye ax for your mouth?” “I say, sir, do you belong to the Phenix?  Vy don’t you show your badge?” “I say, Tom, that ’ere fire-engine has been painted by some house-painter, it’s never been in the hands of no coach-maker.  Do you shave by that ’ere glazed castor of yours?” “I’m blowed it I wouldn’t get you a shilling a week to shove your face in sand, to make moulds for brass knockers.”  “Ay, get away!—­make haste, or the fire will be out,” bawled out another, as Jorrocks whipped on, and rattled out of hearing.