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 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
"I.O.U.," we'll shut up shop.'

'An "I.O.U.!"' retorted Sponge, looking virtuously indignant. 'An "I.O.U.!"
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 ox. However, never mind,'
continued he, seeing Sponge declined the feel. 'Life's uncertain: so you
give me an "I.O.U." 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 'I.O.U.' 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, 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 deaf, bit with bugs, and robb