three pound fifteen against his guest. Facey would now leave off. Sponge, on the other hand, wanted to go on. Facey, however, was firm. ‘I’ll cut you double or quits, then,’ cried Sponge, in rash despair. Facey accommodated him and doubled the debt.

‘Again!’ exclaimed Sponge, with desperate energy.

‘No! no more, thank ye,’ replied Facey, coolly. ‘Fair play’s a jewel.’

‘So it is,’ assented Mr Sponge, thinking he hadn’t had it.

‘Now,’ continued Facey, poking into the table-drawer and producing a dirty scrap of paper, with a little pocket ink-case, ‘if you’ll give me an ‘‘IOU,’’ we’ll shut up shop.’

‘An ‘‘IOU!’’ ’ retorted Sponge, looking virtuously indignant. -- ‘An ‘‘IOU!’’ I’ll give you your money i’ the mornin’.’

‘I know you will,’ replied Facey, coolly, putting himself in boxing attitude, exclaiming, as he measured out a distance, ‘just feel the biceps muscle of my arm -- do believe I could fell an on. However, never mind,’ continued he, seeing Sponge declined the feel. ‘Life’s uncertain: so you give me an ‘‘IOU’’ and we’ll be all right and square. Short reckonin’s make long friends, you know,’ added he, pointing peremptorily to the paper.

‘I’d better give you a cheque at once,’ retorted Sponge, looking the very essence of chivalry.

‘Money, if you please,’ replied Facey; muttering, with a jerk of his head, ‘don’t like paper.’

The renowned Sponge, for once, was posed. He had the money, but he didn’t like to part with it. So he gave the

IOU
Seven Pounds Ten Shillings
£7 10 0
H. Sponge

and, lighting a twelve-to-the-pound candle, sulked off to undress and crawl into the little impossibility of a bed.

Night, however, brought no relief to our distinguished friend; for, little though the bed was, it was large enough to admit lodgers, and poor Sponge was nearly worried by the half-famished vermin, who seemed bent on making up for the long fast they had endured since the sixteen-hands-man left. Worst of all, as day dawned, the eternal ‘Jim Crow’ recommenced his saltations, varied only with the

‘Come, arouse ye, my merry Swiss boy’

of ‘me Oncle Gilroy.’

‘Well, dash my buttons!’ groaned Sponge, as the discordant noise shot through his aching head, ‘but this is the worst spec I ever made in my life. Fed on pork, fluted dear; bit with bugs, and robbed at cards -- fairly, downrightly robbed. Never was a more reg’ler plant put on a man. Thank goodness, however, I haven’t paid him -- never will, either. Such a confounded, disreputable scoundrel deserves to be punished -- big, bad, blackguard-looking fellow! How the deuce I could ever be taken in by such a fellow! Believe he’s nothing but a great poaching blackleg. Hasn’t the faintest outlines of a gentleman about him -- not the slightest particle -- not the remotest glimmerin’.’

These and similar reflections were interrupted by a great thump against the thin lath-and-plaster wall that separated their rooms, or rather closets, accompanied by an exclamation of --

‘Halloo, old boy! How goes it?’ -- an enquiry to which our friend deigned no answer.