'
'Well, dash my buttons!' groaned Sponge, as the discordant noise shot
through his aching head, 'but this is the worst spec I ever made in my
life. Fed on pork, fluted deaf, bit with bugs, and robbed at cards--fairly,
downrightly robbed. Never was a more reg'ler plant put on a man. Thank
goodness, however, I haven't paid him--never will, either. Such a
confounded, disreputable scoundrel deserves to be punished--big, bad,
blackguard-looking fellow! How the deuce I could ever be taken in by such a
fellow! Believe he's nothing but a great poaching blackleg. Hasn't the
faintest outlines of a gentleman about him--not the slightest particle--not
the remotest glimmerin'.'
These and similar reflections were interrupted by a great thump against the
thin lath-and-plaster wall that separated their rooms, or rather closets,
accompanied by an exclamation of:
'HALLOO, OLD BOY! HOW GOES IT?'--an inquiry to which our friend
deigned no answer.
''Ord rot ye! you're awake,' muttered Facey to himself, well knowing that
no one could sleep after such a 'Jim-Crow-ing' and 'Swiss-boy-ing' as he
had given him.
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