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 pleased.’

‘Indeed,’ replied Sponge, now passing on into Mogg’s Cab Fares—­’Aldersgate Street, Hare Court, to or from Bagnigge Wells,’ and so on, when Facey struck up the most squeaking, discordant, broken-winded

    ‘Jump Jim Crow’

that ever was heard, making the sensitive Sponge shudder, and setting all his teeth on edge.

’Hang me, but that flute of yours wants nitre, or a dose of physic, or something most dreadful!’ at length exclaimed he, squeezing up his face as if in the greatest agony, as the laboured: 

    ‘Jump about and wheel about’

completely threw Sponge over in his calculation as to what he could ride from Aldgate Pump to the Pied Bull at Islington for.