I'll not put up with any of your nonsense.
The Sponges are as old a family as the Scamperdales, and I'll fight you any
non-hunting day you like with pistols, broadswords, fists or
blunder-busses."'
'Well done you! Bravo! that's your sort!' with loud thumping of tables and
clapping of hands, resounded from all parts.
'By Jove, fill him up a stiff'un! he deserves a good drink after that!'
exclaimed Sir Harry, pouring Mr. Sponge out a beaker, equal parts brandy
and water.
Mr. Sponge immediately became a hero, and was freely admitted into their
circle. He was clearly a choice spirit--a trump of the first water--and
they only wanted his name to be uncommonly thick with him. As it was, they
plied him with victuals and drink, all seeming anxious to bring him up to
the same happy state of inebriety as themselves. They talked and they
chattered, and they abused Old Scamperdale and Jack Spraggon, and lauded
Mr. Sponge up to the skies.
Thus day closed in, with Farmer Peastraw's bright fire shedding its
cheering glow over the now encircling group.
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