‘Bless my heart!’ exclainned Facey, in well-feigned surprise, ‘Bless my heart! Why, I thought you liked music, my dear feller!’ adding, ‘I was playin’ to please you.’

‘The deuce you were!’ snapped Mr Sponge, ‘I wish I’d known sooner: I’d have saved you a deal of wind.’

‘Why, my dear feller,’ replied Facey, ‘I wished to entertain you the best in my power. One must do somethin’, you know.’

‘I’d rather do anything than undergo that horrid noise,’ replied Sponge, ringing his left ear with his forefinger.

‘Let’s have a game at cards, then,’ rejoined Facey, soothingly, seeing he had sufficiently agonised Sponge.

‘Cards,’ replied Mr Sponge. ‘Cards,’ repeated he, thoughtfully, stroking his hairy chin. ‘Cards,’ added he, for the third time, as he conned Facey’s rotund visage, and wondered if he was a sharper. If the cards were fair, Sponge didn’t care trying his luck. It all depended upon that. ‘Well,’ said he, in a tone of indifference, as he picked up his Mogg, thinking he wouldn’t pay if he lost, ‘I’ll give you a turn. What shall it be?’

‘Oh -- w--h--o--y -- s’pose we say éecartée?’ replied Facey, in an off-hand sort of way.

‘Well,’ drawled Sponge, pocketing his Mogg, preparatory to action.

‘You haven’t a clean pack, have you?’ asked Sponge, as Facey, diving into a drawer, produced a very dirty, thumb-marked set.

‘W--h--o--y, no, I haven’t,’ replied Facey. ‘W--h--o--y, no I haven’t: but, honour bright, these are all right and fair. Wouldn’t cheat a man, if it was ever so.’

‘Sure you wouldn’t,’ replied Sponge, nothing comforted by the assertion.

They then resumed their seats opposite each other at the little table, with the hot water and sugar, and ‘Fine London Spirit’ bottle, equitably placed between them.

At first Mr Sponge was the victor, and by nine o’clock had scored eight-and-twenty shillings against his host, when he was inclined to leave off, alleging that he was an early man, and would go to bed -- an arrangement that Facey seemed to come into, only pressing Sponge to accompany the gin he was now helping himself to with another cigar. This seemed all fair and reasonable; and as Sponge conned matters over, through the benign influence of the ‘ ’baccy,’ he really thought Facey mightn’t be such a bad beggar after all.

‘Well, then,’ said he, as he finished cigar and glass together, ‘if you’ll give me eight-and-twenty bob, I’ll be off to bedfordshire.

‘You’ll give me my revenge surely!’ exclaimed Facey, in pretended astonishment.

‘Tomorrow night,’ replied Sponge firmly, thinking it would have to go hard with him if he remained there to give it.

‘Nay, now!’ rejoined Facey, adding, ‘it’s quite early. Me Oncle Gilroy and I always play much later at Queercove Hill.’

Sponge hesitated. If he had got the money, he would have refused point-blank; as it was, he thought, perhaps the only chance of getting it was to go on. With no small reluctance and misgivings he mixed himself another tumbler of gin and water, and, changing seats, resumed the game. Nor was our discreet friend far wrong in his calculations, for luck now changed, and Facey seemed to have the king quite at command. In less than an hour he had not only wiped off the eight-and-twenty shillings, but had scored