Mr Facey Romford's Hounds Read Online Free PDF Page A

winter season, when day is much the same as night in London, Facey lounged leisurely along the gaslit street, one roguish eye reading the names and callings of the shops on his left, the other raking the opposite side of the way; but though he drew along slowly and carefully, examining as well the doors as the windows, no Sponge sign, no cigar warehouse, greeted his optics. Fish, books, boxes, bacon, boots, shoes, everything but Sponges.
    So he came upon the ’bus-crowded Regent Street, not having had a whiff of a cigar save from the passers-by. There then he stood at the corner of the street biting his nails, lost in astonishment at the result. “Reg’lar do,” muttered he; “beggar’s bolted,” looking back on the long vista of lamps he had passed. “Well, that’s a nice go,” said he; “always thought that fellow was a sharper.” Just then an unhandsome Hansom came splashing and tearing along the way he had come, and dashing across Regent Street pursued the continuous route beyond.
    â€œMay as well cast across here,” said Facey to himself, picking his way over the muddy street, taking care of his buttoned boots as he went. His sagacity was rewarded by reading “Jermyn Street” on the opposite wall. “For-rard! for-rard!” he cheered himself, thinking the cigar shop scent improved as he went. Indeed he quickly came upon a baccy shop, green door, red blinds, all indicative of a find, for no sooner does one tradesman get well-established than another comes as near as he can get to pick away part of his custom.
    Just then Facey’s keen eye caught sight of two little over-dressed snobs stopping suddenly at a radiant shop window a few paces further on, and advancing stealthily along, as if going up with his gun to a point, the words “Devilish ’andsome” fell upon his ear. Looking over their shoulders there appeared the familiar figure of Mrs Sponge behind the counter. Mrs Sponge, slightly advanced in embonpoint since he saw her, but still in the full bloom of womanly beauty. She was dressed in a semi-evening costume, low-necked lavender-coloured silk dress, with an imitation black Spanish mantilla thrown gracefully over her swan-like neck and drooping well-rounded shoulders. The glare of the gaslight illumined her clear Italian-like complexion, and imparted a lustre to a light bandeau of brilliants that encircled her jet black hair. Altogether she looked very bewitching. There was a great hairy fellow in the shop, as big as Facey, and better made, who kept laughing and talking, and “Lucy”-ing Mrs Sponge in the familiar way fools talk to women in bars and cigar rooms. The little snobs were rather kept at bay by the sight; not so friend Facey, who brushed past them and boldly entered the once famous “Sponge Cigar and Betting-Rooms.” Lucy started with a half-suppressed shriek at the sight, for Romford at any time would have been formidable, but a black Romford was more than her nerves could bear. Added to this she knew who had returned the dunning letters, and feared the visit boded no good.
    â€œWell, and how goes it?” said Facey, advancing, and tendering his great ungloved hand.
    â€œPretty well, thank you, Mr Romford,” replied Lucy, shaking hands with him.
    â€œAnd how’s the old boy?” asked Facey, meaning Soapey.
    â€œHe’s pretty well, too, thank you,” replied Mrs Sponge.
    â€œAt home?” asked Facey, with an air of indifference.
    â€œWell—no—” hesitated Lacy, “he’s just gone out to his drill. He is one of the West Middlesex.” (He was up-stairs dressing to go to the billiard-room.)
    The hairy monster seeing he was superseded presently took his departure, and the little snobs having passed on, the two were left together; so Facey taking a chair planted himself just opposite the door, as well to stare at her as to stem the tide of further custom. It