'Life's uncertain: so you
give me an "I.O.U." and we'll be all right and square. Short reckonin's
make long friends, you know,' added he, pointing peremptorily to the paper.
'I'd better give you a cheque at once,' retorted Sponge, looking the very
essence of chivalry.
'_Money_, if you please,' replied Facey; muttering, with a jerk of his
head, 'don't like paper.'
The renowned Sponge, for once, was posed. He had the money, but he didn't
like to part with it. So he gave the 'I.O.U.' and, lighting a
twelve-to-the-pound candle, sulked off to undress and crawl into the little
impossibility of a bed.
Night, however, brought no relief to our distinguished friend; for, little
though the bed was, it was large enough to admit lodgers, and poor Sponge
was nearly worried by the half-famished vermin, who seemed bent on making
up for the long fast they had endured since the sixteen-hands-man left.
Worst of all, as day dawned, the eternal 'Jim Crow' recommenced his
saltations, varied only with the:
'Come, arouse ye, arouse ye, my merry Swiss boy'
of 'me Oncle Gilroy.
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