'Well,' said
he, in a tone of indifference, as he picked up his _Mogg_, thinking he
wouldn't pay if he lost, 'I'll give you a turn. What shall it be?'
'Oh--w-h-o-y--s'pose we say _ecarte_?' replied Facey, in an off-hand sort
of way.
'Well,' drawled Sponge, pocketing his _Mogg_, preparatory to action.
'You haven't a clean pack, have you?' asked Sponge, as Facey, diving into a
drawer, produced a very dirty, thumb-marked set.
'W-h-o-y, no, I haven't,' replied Facey. 'W-h-o-y, no, I haven't: but,
honour bright, these are all right and fair. Wouldn't cheat a man, if it
was ever so.'
'Sure you wouldn't,' replied Sponge, nothing comforted by the assertion.
They then resumed their seats opposite each other at the little table, with
the hot water and sugar, and 'Fine London Spirit' bottle equitably placed
between them.
At first Mr. Sponge was the victor, and by nine o'clock had scored
eight-and-twenty shillings against his host, when he was inclined to leave
off, alleging that he was an early man, and would go to bed--an arrangement
that Facey seemed to come into, only pressing Sponge to accompany the gin
he was now helping himself to with another cigar.
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