''Ord hang it, man! you're so nasty partickler,' rejoined Facey; 'you're so
nasty partickler. You'll never do to go out duck-shootin' i' your shirt.
Dash it, man! Oncle Gilroy would disinherit me if ar was such a chap.
However, look sharp,' continued he, 'if you are goin' to clean yourself;
for dinner 'll be ready in no time, indeed, I hear Mrs. End dishin' it up.'
So saying, Facey rolled out of the room, and Sponge presently heard him
pulling off his clogs of shoes in the adjoining one. Dinner spoke for
itself, for the house reeked with the smell of fried onions and roast pork.
Now, Sponge didn't like pork; and there was nothing but pork, or pig in one
shape or another. Spare ribs, liver and bacon, sausages, black puddings,
&c.--all very good in their way, but which came with a bad grace after the
comforts of Jog's, the elegance of Puffington's, and the early splendour of
Jawleyford's. Our hero was a good deal put out, and felt as if he was
imposed upon. What business had a man like this to ask him to stay with
him--a man who dined by daylight, and ladled his meat with a great
two-pronged fork?
Facey, though he saw Mr.
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