FACEY ROMFORD AT HOME
We will now suppose our distinguished Sponge entering the village, or what
the natives call the town of Washingforde, towards the close of a short
December day, on his arrival from Mr. Jog's.
'What sort of stables are there?' asked he, reining up his hack, as he
encountered the brandy-nosed Leather airing himself on the main street.
'Stables be good enough--forage, too,' replied the stud groom--'_per_-wided
you likes the sittivation.'
'Oh, the sittivation 'll be good enough,' retorted Sponge, thinking that,
groom-like, Leather was grumbling because he hadn't got the best stables.
'Well, sir, as you please,' replied the man.
'Why, where are they?' asked Sponge, seeing there was more in Leather's
manner than met the eye.
'_Rose and Crown!_' replied Leather, with an emphasis.
'Rose and Crown!' exclaimed Sponge, starting in his saddle; 'Rose and
Crown! Why, I'm going to stay with Mr. Romford!'
'So he said.' replied Leather; 'so he said. I met him as I com'd in with
the osses, and said he to me, said he, "You'll find captle quarters at the
Crown!"' 'The deuce!' exclaimed Mr. Sponge, dropping the reins on his
hack's neck; 'the deuce!' repeated he with a look of disgust. 'Why, where
does he live?'
''Bove the saddler's, thonder,' replied Leather, nodding to a small
bow-windowed white house a little lower down, with the gilt-lettered words:
OVEREND,
SADDLER AND HARNESS-MAKER TO THE QUEEN,
above a very meagrely stocked shop.
'The devil!' replied Mr. Sponge, boiling up as he eyed the cottage-like
dimensions of the place.
The dialogue was interrupted by a sledge-hammer-like blow on Sponge's back,
followed by such a proffered hand as could proceed from none but his host.
'Glad to see ye!' exclaimed Facey, swinging Sponge's arm to and fro. 'Get
off!' continued he, half dragging him down, 'and let's go in; for it's
beastly cold, and dinner'll be ready in no time!'
So saying, he led the captive Sponge down street, like a prisoner, by the
arm, and, opening the thin house-door, pushed him up a very straight
staircase into a little low cabin-like room, hung with boxing-gloves,
foils, and pictures of fighters and ballet girls.
'Glad to see ye!' again said Facey, poking the diminutive fire. 'Axed Nosey
Nickel and Gutty Weazel to meet you,' continued he, looking at the little
'dinner-for-two' table; 'but Nosey's gone wrong in a tooth, and Gutty's
away sweetheartin'. However, we'll be very cosy and jolly together; and if
you want to wash your hands, or anything afore dinner, I'll show you your
bedroom,' continued he, backing Sponge across the staircase landing to
where a couple of little black doors opened into rooms, formed by dividing
what had been the duplicate of the sitting-room into two.
'There!' exclaimed Facey, pointing to Sponge's portmanteau and bag,
standing midway between the window and door: 'There! there are your traps.
Yonder's the washhand-stand. You can put your shavin'-things on the chair
below the lookin'-glass 'gainst the wall,' pointing to a fragment of glass
nailed against the stencilled wall, all of which Sponge stood eyeing with
a mingled air of resignation and contempt; but when Facey pointed to:
'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 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.
'B-o-y Jove, what a night!' exclaimed Facey, as a blash of sleet dashed
across the window as if some one had thrown a handful of pebbles against
it. 'B-o-y Jove, what a night!' repeated he, rising and closing the
shutters, and letting down the little scanty red curtain. 'Let us draw in
and have a hot brew,' continued he, stirring the fire under the kettle, and
handing a lot of cigars out of the table-drawer. They then sat smoking and
sipping, and smoking and sipping, each making a mental estimate of the
other.
'Shall we have a game at cards? or what shall we do to pass the evenin'?'
at length asked our host. 'Better have a game at cards, p'raps,' continued
he.
'Thank'ee, no; thank'ee, no. I've a book in my pocket,' replied Sponge,
diving into his jacket-pocket; adding, as he fished up his _Mogg_, 'always
carry a book of light reading about with me.'
'What, you're a literary cove, are you?' asked Facey, in a tone of
surprise.
'Not exactly that,' replied Sponge; 'but I like to improve my mind.' He
then opened the valuable work, taking a dip into the Omnibus
Guide--'Brentford, 7 from Hyde Park Corner--European Coffee House, near
the Bank, daily,' and so worked his way on through the 'Brighton Railway
Station, Brixton, Bromley both in Kent and Middlesex, Bushey Heath,
Camberwell, Camden Town, and Carshalton,' right into Cheam, when Facey, who
had been eyeing him intently, not at all relishing his style of proceeding
and wishing to be doing, suddenly exclaimed, as he darted up:
[Illustration: FACEY ROMFORD TREATS SPONGE TO A LITTLE MUSIC]
'B-o-y Jove! You've not heard me play the flute! No more you have. Dash it,
how remiss!' continued he, making for the little bookshelf on which it lay;
adding, as he blew into it and sucked the joints, 'you're musical, of
course?'
'Oh, I can stand music,' muttered Sponge, with a jerk of his head, as if a
tune was neither here nor there with him.
'By Jingo! you should see me Oncle Gilroy when a'rm playin'! The old man
act'ly sheds tears of delight--he's so pleased.'
'Indeed,' replied Sponge, now passing on into _Mogg's Cab
Fares_--'Aldersgate Street, Hare Court, to or from Bagnigge Wells,' and so
on, when Facey struck up the most squeaking, discordant, broken-winded
'Jump Jim Crow'
that ever was heard, making the sensitive Sponge shudder, and setting all
his teeth on edge.
'Hang me, but that flute of yours wants nitre, or a dose of physic, or
something most dreadful!' at length exclaimed he, squeezing up his face as
if in the greatest agony, as the laboured:
'Jump about and wheel about'
completely threw Sponge over in his calculation as to what he could ride
from Aldgate Pump to the Pied Bull at Islington for.
'Oh no!' replied Facey, with an air of indifference, as he took off the end
and jerked out the steam. 'Oh no--only wants work--only wants work,' added
he, putting it together again, exclaiming, as he looked at the now sulky
Sponge, 'Well, what shall it be?'
'Whatever you please,' replied our friend, dipping frantically into his
_Mogg_.
'Well, then, I'll play you me oncle's favourite tune, "The Merry Swiss
Boy,"' whereupon Facey set to most vigorously with that once most popular
air. It, however, came off as rustily as 'Jim Crow,' for whose feats Facey
evidently had a partiality; for no sooner did he get squeaked through 'me
oncle's' tune than he returned to the nigger melody with redoubled zeal,
and puffed and blew Sponge's calculations as to what he could ride from
'Mother Redcap's at Camden Town down Liquorpond Street, up Snow Hill, and
so on, to the 'Angel' in Ratcliff Highway for, clean out of his head. Nor
did there seem any prospect of relief, for no sooner did Facey get through
one tune than he at the other again.
'Rot it!' at length exclaimed Sponge, throwing his _Mogg_ from him in
despair, 'you'll deafen me with that abominable noise.' 'Bless my heart!'
exclaimed Facey, in well-feigned surprise, 'Bless my heart! Why, I thought
you liked music, my dear feller!' adding, 'I was playin' to please you.'
'The deuce you were!' snapped Mr. Sponge. 'I wish I'd known sooner: I'd
have saved you a deal of wind.'
'Why, my dear feller,' replied Facey, 'I wished to entertain you the best
in my power. One must do somethin', you know.'
'I'd rather do anything than undergo that horrid noise,' replied Sponge,
ringing his left ear with his forefinger.
'Let's have a game at cards, then,' rejoined Facey soothingly, seeing he
had sufficiently agonized Sponge.
'Cards,' replied Mr. Sponge. 'Cards,' repeated he thoughtfully, stroking
his hairy chin. 'Cards,' added he, for the third time, as he conned Facey's
rotund visage, and wondered if he was a sharper. If the cards were fair,
Sponge didn't care trying his luck. It all depended upon that. '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. This seemed all fair and
reasonable; and as Sponge conned matters over, through the benign influence
of the ''baccy,' he really thought Facey mightn't be such a bad beggar
after all.
'Well, then,' said he, as he finished cigar and glass together, 'if you'll
give me eight-and-twenty bob, I'll be off to Bedfordshire.'
'You'll give me my revenge surely!' exclaimed Facey, in pretended
astonishment.
'To-morrow night,' replied Sponge firmly, thinking it would have to go hard
with him if he remained there to give it.
'Nay, _now_!' rejoined Facey, adding, 'it's quite early. Me Oncle Gilroy
and I always play much later at Queercove Hill.'
Sponge hesitated. If he had got the money, he would have refused
point-blank; as it was, he thought, perhaps the only chance of getting it
was to go on. With no small reluctance and misgivings he mixed himself
another tumbler of gin and water, and, changing seats, resumed the game.
Nor was our discreet friend far wrong in his calculations, for luck now
changed, and Facey seemed to have the king quite at command. In less than
an hour he had not only wiped off the eight-and-twenty shillings, but had
scored three pound fifteen against his guest. Facey would now leave off.
Sponge, on the other hand, wanted to go on. Facey, however, was firm. 'I'll
cut you double or quits, then,' cried Sponge, in rash despair. Facey
accommodated him and doubled the debt.
'Again!' exclaimed Sponge, with desperate energy.
'No! no more, thank ye,' replied Facey coolly. 'Fair play's a jewel.'
'So it is,' assented Mr. Sponge, thinking he hadn't had it.
'Now,' continued Facey, poking into the table-drawer and producing a dirty
scrap of paper, with a little pocket ink-case, 'if you'll give me an
"I.O.U.," we'll shut up shop.'
'An "I.O.U.!"' retorted Sponge, looking virtuously indignant. 'An "I.O.U.!"
I'll give you your money i' the mornin'.'
'I know you will,' replied Facey coolly, putting himself in boxing
attitude, exclaiming, as he measured out a distance, 'just feel the biceps
muscle of my arm--do believe I could fell an ox. However, never mind,'
continued he, seeing Sponge declined the feel. '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.'
'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. He therefore resumed his battery, thumping as though he
would knock the partition in.
'HALLOO!' at last exclaimed Mr. Sponge, 'who's there?'
'Well, old Sivin-Pund-Ten, how goes it?' asked Facey, in a tone of the
keenest irony.
'You be ----!' growled Mr. Sponge, in disgust.
'Breakfast in half an hour!' resumed Facey. 'Pigs'-puddin's and
sarsingers--all 'ot--pipin' 'ot!' continued our host.
'Wish you were pipin' 'ot,' growled Mr. Sponge, as he jerked himself out of
his little berth.
Though Facey pumped him pretty hard during this second pig repast, he could
make nothing out of Sponge with regard to his movements--our friend
parrying all his inquiries with his _Mogg_, and assurances that he could
amuse himself. In vain Facey represented that his Oncle Gilroy would be
expecting them; that Mr. Hobler was ready for him to ride over on; Sponge
wasn't inclined to shoot, but begged Facey wouldn't stay at home on his
account. The fact was, Sponge meditated a bolt, and was in close confab
with Leather, in the Rose and Crown stables, arranging matters, when the
sound of his name in the yard caused him to look out, when--oh, welcome
sight!--a Puddingpote Bower messenger put Sir Harry's note in his hand,
which had at length arrived at Jog's through their very miscellaneous
transit, called a post. Sponge, in the joy of his heart, actually gave the
lad a shilling! He now felt like a new man. He didn't care a rap for Facey,
and, ordering Leather to give him the hack and follow with the hunters, he
presently cantered out of town as sprucely as if all was on the square.
When, however, Facey found how matters stood, he determined to stop
Sponge's things, which Leather resisted; and, Facey showing fight, Leather
butted him with his head, sending him backwards downstairs and putting his
shoulder out. Leather than marched off with the kit, amid the honours of
war.