read," even though the errand-cart were running too. Into this cart,
which was drawn by the celebrated rat-tail hunter, they were pitching
divers packages for town delivery, and a couple of light porters nearly
upset the Yorkshireman, as they bustled out with their loads. The
warehouse itself gave evident proof of great antiquity. It was not
one of your fine, light, lofty, mahogany-countered, banker-like
establishments of modern times, where the stock-in-trade often consists
of books and empty canisters, but a large, roomy, gloomy, dirty,
dingy sort of cellar above ground, full of hogsheads, casks, flasks,
sugar-loaves, jars, bags, bottles, and boxes.

The floor was half an inch thick, at least, with dirt, and was sprinkled
with rice, currants, and raisins, as though they had been scattered for
the purpose of growing. A small corner seemed to have been cut off, like
the fold of a Leicestershire grazing-ground, and made into an office in
the centre of which was a square or two of glass that commanded a view
of the whole warehouse. "Is Mr. Jorrocks in?" inquired the Yorkshireman
of a porter, who was busy digging currants with a wooden spade. "Yes,
sir, you'll find him in the counting-house," was the answer; but on
looking in, though his hat and gloves were there, no Jorrocks was
visible. At the farther end of the warehouse a man in his shirt-sleeves,
with a white apron round his waist and a brown paper cap on his head,
was seen under a very melancholy-looking skylight, holding his head over
something, as if his nose were bleeding. The Yorkshireman groped his way
up to him, and asking if Mr. Jorrocks was in, found he was addressing
the grocer himself. He had been leaning over a large trayful of little
white cups--with teapots to match--trying the strength, flavour, and
virtue of a large purchase of tea, and the beverage was all smoking
before him. "My vig," exclaimed he, holding out his hand, "who'd have
thought of seeing you in the city, this is something unkimmon! However,