'The chest, contrived a double debt to pay--
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day'

and said that was where Sponge would have to curl himself up, our friend
shook his head, and declared he could not.

'Oh, fiddle!' replied Facey, 'Jack Weatherley slept in it for months, and
he's half a hand higher than you--sixteen hands, if he's an inch.' And
Sponge jerked his head and bit his lips, thinking he was 'done' for once.

'W-h-o-y, ar thought you'd been a fox-hunter,' observed Facey, seeing his
guest's disconcerted look.

'Well, but bein' a fox-hunter won't enable one to sleep in a band-box, or
to shut one's-self up like a telescope,' retorted the indignant Sponge.

''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. 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 mak