‘Shall we have a game at cards? or what shall we do to pass the evenin’?’ at length asked our host. ‘Better have a game at cards, p’raps,’ continued he.

‘Thank’ee, no; thank’ee, no. I’ve a book in my pocket,’ replied Sponge, diving into his jacket-pocket; adding, as he fished up his Mogg,’ always carry a book of light reading about with me.’

‘What, you’re a literary cove, are you?’ asked Facey, in a tone of surprise.

‘Not exactly that,’ replied Sponge; ‘but I like to improve my mind.’ He then opened the valuable work, taking a dip into the Omnibus Guide -- ‘Brentford, 7 from Hyde Park Corner -- European Coffee House, near the Bank, daily,’ and so worked his way on through the ‘Brighton Railway Station, Brixton, Bromley both in Kent and Middle-sex, Bushey Heath, Camberwell, Camden Town, and Carshalton,’ right into Cheam, when Facey, who had been eyeing him intently, not at all relishing his style of proceeding and wishing to be doing, suddenly exclaimed, as he darted up --

‘B-o-y Jove! You’ve not heard me play the flute! No more you have. Dash it, how remiss!’ continued he, making for the little book-shelf on which it lay; adding, as he blew into it and sucked the joints, ‘you’re musical, of course?’

‘Oh, I can stand music,’ muttered Sponge, with a jerk of his head, as if a tune was neither here nor there with him.

‘By Jingo! you should see me Oncle Gilroy when a’rm playin’! The old man act’ly sheds tears of delight -- he’s so pleased.’

‘Indeed,’ replied Sponge, now passing on into Mogg’s Cab Fares -- ‘Aldersgate Street, Hare Court, to or from Bagnigge- Wells,’ and so on, when Facey struck up the most squeaking, discordant, broken-winded

‘Jump Jim Crow’

that ever was heard, making the sensitive Sponge shudder, and setting all his teeth on edge.

‘Hang me, but that flute of yours wants nitre, or a dose of physic, or something most dreadful!’ at length exclaimed he, squeezing up his face as if in the greatest agony, as the laboured --

‘Jump about and wheel about’

completely threw Sponge over in his calculation as to what he could ride from Aldgate Pump to the Pied Bull at Islington for.

‘Oh, no!’ replied Facey, with an air of indifference, as he took off the end and jerked out the steam. ‘Oh, no -- only wants work -- only wants work,’ added he, putting it together again, exclaiming, as he looked at the now sulky Sponge, ‘Well, what shall it be?’

‘Whatever you please,’ replied our friend, dipping frantically into his Mogg.

‘Well, then, I’ll play you me oncle’s favourite tune, ‘‘The Merry Swiss Boy,’’ ’ whereupon Facey set to most vigorously with that once most popular air. It, however, came off as rustily as ‘Jim Crow,’ for whose feats Facey evidently had a partiality; for no sooner did he get squeaked through ‘me oncle’s’ tune than he returned to the nigger melody with redoubled zeal, and puffed and blew Sponge’s calculations as to what he could ride from ‘Mother Redcap’s at Camden Town down Liquorpond Street, up Snow Hill, and so on, to the Angel in Ratcliffe Highway for, clean out of his head. Nor did there seem any prospect of relief, for no sooner did Facey get through one tune than he at the other again.

‘Rot it!’ at length exclaimed Sponge, throwing his Mogg from him in despair, ‘you’ll deafen me with that abominable noise.’