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 robbed at cards—­fairly, downrightly robbed.  Never was a more reg’ler plant put on a man.  Thank goodness, however, I haven’t paid him—­never will, either.  Such a confounded, disreputable scoundrel deserves to be punished—­big, bad, blackguard-looking fellow!  How the deuce I could ever be taken in by such a fellow!  Believe he’s nothing but a great poaching blackleg.  Hasn’t the faintest outlines of a gentleman about him—­not the slightest particle—­not the remotest glimmerin’.’

These and similar reflections were interrupted by a great thump against the thin lath-and-plaster wall that separated their rooms, or rather closets, accompanied by an exclamation of: 

’HALLOO, OLD BOY!  HOW GOES IT?’—­an inquiry to which our friend deigned no answer.

‘’Ord rot ye! you’re awake,’ muttered Facey to himself, well knowing that no one could sleep after such a ‘Jim-Crow-ing’ and ‘Swiss-boy-ing’ as he had given him.  He therefore resumed his battery, thumping as though he would knock the partition in.

‘HALLOO!’ at last exclaimed Mr. Sponge, ‘who’s there?’

‘Well, old Sivin-Pund-Ten, how goes it?’ asked Facey, in a tone of the keenest irony.

‘You be ——!’ growled Mr. Sponge, in disgust.

‘Breakfast in half an hour!’ resumed Facey.  ’Pigs’-puddin’s and sarsingers—­all ‘ot—­pipin’ ‘ot!’ continued our host.

‘Wish you were pipin’ ‘ot,’ growled Mr. Sponge, as he jerked himself out of his little berth.

Though Facey pumped him pretty hard during this second pig repast, he could make nothing out of Sponge with regard to his movements—­our friend parrying all his inquiries with his Mogg, and assurances that he could amuse himself.  In vain Facey represented that his Oncle Gilroy would be expecting them; that Mr. Hobler was ready for him to ride over on; Sponge wasn’t inclined to shoot, but begged Facey wouldn’t stay at home on his account.  The fact was, Sponge meditated a bolt, and was in close confab with Leather, in the Rose and Crown stables, arranging matters, when