'Let's have a game at cards, then,' rejoined Facey soothingly, seeing he had sufficiently 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 écarté?' 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.'