‘Oh no!’ replied Facey, with an air of indifference, as he took off the end and jerked out the steam.  ‘Oh no—­only wants work—­only wants work,’ added he, putting it together again, exclaiming, as he looked at the now sulky Sponge, ‘Well, what shall it be?’

‘Whatever you please,’ replied our friend, dipping frantically into his Mogg.

’Well, then, I’ll play you me oncle’s favourite tune, “The Merry Swiss Boy,"’ whereupon Facey set to most vigorously with that once most popular air.  It, however, came off as rustily as ‘Jim Crow,’ for whose feats Facey evidently had a partiality; for no sooner did he get squeaked through ’me oncle’s’ tune than he returned to the nigger melody with redoubled zeal, and puffed and blew Sponge’s calculations as to what he could ride from ’Mother Redcap’s at Camden Town down Liquorpond Street, up Snow Hill, and so on, to the ‘Angel’ in Ratcliff Highway for, clean out of his head.  Nor did there seem any prospect of relief, for no sooner did Facey get through one tune than he at the other again.

‘Rot it!’ at length exclaimed Sponge, throwing his Mogg from him in despair, ‘you’ll deafen me with that abominable noise.’  ‘Bless my heart!’ exclaimed Facey, in well-feigned surprise, ’Bless my heart!  Why, I thought you liked music, my dear feller!’ adding, ‘I was playin’ to please you.’

‘The deuce you were!’ snapped Mr. Sponge.  ’I wish I’d known sooner:  I’d have saved you a deal of wind.’

‘Why, my dear feller,’ replied Facey, ’I wished to entertain you the best in my power.  One must do somethin’, you know.’

‘I’d rather do anything than undergo that horrid noise,’ replied Sponge, ringing his left ear with his forefinger.

‘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 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.