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 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.’