by where he
stood--"why here are as many hats as would set up a shop. I really
thought I'd got into Beaver (Belvoir) Castle by mistake!"

"Haw! haw! haw! werry good, Mr. Happerley, werry good indeed--I owes you
one."

"I thought it was a castor-oil mill," rejoined Mr. Spiers.

"Haw! haw! haw! werry good, Mr. Spiers, werry good indeed--owes you one
also--but I see what you're driving at. You think these hats have a
coconut apiece belonging to them upstairs. No such thing I assure you;
no such thing. The fact is, they are what I've won at warious times of
the members of our hunt, and as I've got you great sporting coves dining
with me, I'm a-going to set them out on my sideboard, just as racing
gents exhibit their gold and silver cups, you know. Binjimin! I say,
Binjimin! you blackguard," holloaing down the kitchen stairs, "why don't
you set out the castors as I told you? and see you brush them well!"
"Coming, sir, coming, sir!" replied Benjamin, from below, who at that
moment was busily engaged, taking advantage of Betsey's absence, in
scooping marmalade out of a pot with his thumb. "There's a good lot of
them," said Mr. Jorrocks, resuming the conversation, "four, six, eight,
ten, twelve, thirteen--all trophies of sporting prowess. Real good hats.
None o' your nasty gossamers, or dog-hair ones. There's a tile!" said
he, balancing a nice new white one with green rims on the tip of his
finger. "I won that in a most miraculous manner. A most wonderful
way, in fact. I was driving to Croydon one morning in my four-wheeled
one-'oss chay, and just as I got to Lilleywhite, the blacksmith's,
below Brixton Hill, they had thrown up a drain--a 'gulph' I may call
it--across the road for the purpose of repairing the gas-pipe--I was
rayther late as it was, for our 'ounds are werry punctual, and there was
nothing for me but either to go a mile and a half about, or drive slap
over the gulph. Well, I looked at it, and the more I looked at it the
less I liked it; but just as I was thinking I had seen enough of it, and
was going to turn away, up tools Timothy Truman in his buggy, and he,
too, began to crane and look into the abyss--and a terrible place it
was, I assure you--quite frightful, and he liked it no better than
myself. Seeing this, I takes courage, and said, 'Why, Tim, your 'oss
will do it!' 'Thank'e, Mr. J----,' said he, 'I'll follow you.' 'Then,'
said I, 'if you'll change wehicles'--for, mind ye, I had no notion of
damaging m