"I don't care for that," replied the sallow youth, "dress him as you
will, court suit, bag wig, and sword, you'll make nothing better of
him--he's a SNOB."

Jorrocks, getting up, runs to the table on which the hats were standing,
saying, "I wonder if he's left his castor behind him? I've always found
a man's hat will tell a good deal. This is yours, Mr. York, with the
loop to it, and here's mine--I always writes Golgotha in mine, which
being interpreted, you know, means the place of a skull. These are
yours, I presume, gentlemen?" said he, taking up two others. "Confound
him, he's taken his tile with him--however, I'm quite positive he's a
gentleman--lay you a hat apiece all round he is, if you like!"

"But how are we to prove it?" inquired the youth.

_Jorrocks._ Call in the waiter.

_Youth._ He may know nothing about him, and a waiter's gentleman is
always the man who pays him most.

_Jorrocks._ Trust the waiter for knowing something about him, and if he
doesn't, why, it's only to send a purlite message upstairs, saying that
two gentlemen in the coffee-room have bet a trifle that he is some
nobleman--Lord Maryborough, for instance,--he's a little chap--but we
must make haste, or the gentleman will be asleep.

"Well, then, I'll take your bet of a hat," replied the youth, "that he
is not what I call a gentleman."