'There!' exclaimed Facey, pointing to Sponge's portmanteau and bag,
standing midway between the window and door: 'There! there are your traps.
Yonder's the washhand-stand. You can put your shavin'-things on the chair
below the lookin'-glass 'gainst the wall,' pointing to a fragment of glass
nailed against the stencilled wall, all of which Sponge stood eyeing with
a mingled air of resignation and contempt; but when Facey pointed to:
'The chest, contrived a double debt to pay--
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day'
and said that was where Sponge would have to curl himself up, our friend
shook his head, and declared he could not.
'Oh, fiddle!' replied Facey, 'Jack Weatherley slept in it for months, and
he's half a hand higher than you--sixteen hands, if he's an inch.' And
Sponge jerked his head and bit his lips, thinking he was 'done' for once.
'W-h-o-y, ar thought you'd been a fox-hunter,' observed Facey, seeing his
guest's disconcerted look.
'Well, but bein' a fox-hunter won't enable one to sleep in a band-box, or
to shut one's-self up like a telescope,' retorted the indignant Sponge.
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