without awaking the grocer; he then tried to open it, but only succeeded
in getting it an inch or two from the post, and after several holloas of
"Jorrocks, my man! Mr. Jorrocks! Jorrocks, old boy! holloa, Jorrocks!"
he succeeded in extracting the word "Wot?" from the worthy gentleman as
he rolled over in his bed. "Jorrocks!" repeated the Yorkshireman, "it's
time to be up." "Wot?" again was the answer. "Time to get up. The
morning's breaking." "Let it break," replied he, adding in a mutter, as
he turned over again, "it owes me nothing."

Entreaties being useless, and a large party being on the point of
setting off, the Yorkshireman joined them, and spent a couple of hours
on the dew-bespangled heath, during which time they not only criticised
the figure and action of every horse that was out, but got up tremendous
appetites for breakfast. In the meantime Mr. Jorrocks had risen, and
having attired himself with his usual care, in a smart blue coat with
metal buttons, buff waistcoat, blue stocking-netted tights, and Hessian
boots, he turned into the main street of Newmarket, where he was lost in
astonishment at the insignificance of the place. But wiser men than
Mr. Jorrocks have been similarly disappointed, for it enters into
the philosophy of few to conceive the fame and grandeur of Newmarket
compressed into the limits of the petty, outlandish, Icelandish place
that bears the name. "Dash my vig," said Mr. Jorrocks, as he brought
himself to bear upon Rogers's shop-window, "this is the werry
meanest town I ever did see. Pray, sir," addressing himself to a
groomish-looking man in a brown cut-away coat, drab shorts and
continuations, who had just emerged from the shop with a race list in
his hand, "Pray, sir, be this your principal street?" The man eyed him
with a mixed look of incredulity and contempt. At length, putting his
thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, he replied, "I bet a crown
you know as well as I do." "Done," said Mr. Jorrocks holding out his