Sponge wasn't pleased, praised and pressed
everything in succession down to a very strong cheese; and as the
slip-shod girl whisked away crumbs and all in the coarse tablecloth, he
exclaimed in a most open-hearted air, 'Well, now, what shall we have to
drink?' adding, 'You smoke, of course--shall it be gin, rum, or
Hollands--Hollands, rum, or gin?'
Sponge was half inclined to propose wine, but recollecting what sloe-juice
sort of stuff it was sure to be, and that Facey, in all probability, would
make him finish it, he just replied, 'Oh, I don't care; 'spose we say gin?'
'Gin be it,' said Facey, rising from his seat, and making for a little
closet in the wall, he produced a bottle labelled 'Fine London Spirit';
and, hallooing to the girl to get a few 'Captins' out of the box under his
bed, he scattered a lot of glasses about the table, and placed a green
dessert-dish for the biscuits against they came.
Night had now closed in--a keen, boisterous, wintry night, making the
pocketful of coals that ornamented the grate peculiarly acceptable.
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