ly agonized 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 _ecarte_?' 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.

'To-morrow 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