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.

"Now, you see," said he, resuming the thread of his discourse, as if
nothing had happened, "this back seat turns down and makes a box, s