ing for a little
closet in the wall, he produced a bottle labelled 'Fine London Spirit';
and, hallooing to the girl to get a few 'Captins' out of the box under his
bed, he scattered a lot of glasses about the table, and placed a green
dessert-dish for the biscuits against they came.

Night had now closed in--a keen, boisterous, wintry night, making the
pocketful of coals that ornamented the grate peculiarly acceptable.

'B-o-y Jove, what a night!' exclaimed Facey, as a blash of sleet dashed
across the window as if some one had thrown a handful of pebbles against
it. 'B-o-y Jove, what a night!' repeated he, rising and closing the
shutters, and letting down the little scanty red curtain. 'Let us draw in
and have a hot brew,' continued he, stirring the fire under the kettle, and
handing a lot of cigars out of the table-drawer. They then sat smoking and
sipping, and smoking and sipping, each making a mental estimate of the
other.

'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 Middlesex, 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:

[Illustration: FACEY ROMFORD TREATS SPONGE TO A LITTLE MUSIC]

'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 bookshelf 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