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Updated: May 15, 2025
Gilroy, of Queercove Hill, a great cattle-jobber, with a 'small independence of his own' three hundred a year, perhaps, which a kind world called six Facey thought he would just hang about until his uncle was done with his shoes, and then be lord of Queercove Hill.
How gratefully Sponge's inquiry if he knew Mr. Romford fell on his ear, as they sat moodily together after dinner over some very low-priced port. Know Charley Romford Facey, as they call him. Gilroy, of Queercove Hill. 'Just so, rejoined Sponge, 'just so; that's the man stout, square-built fellow, with backward-growing whiskers. I'm going to stay with him to shoot at old Gil's.
'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.
'I was goin' to call upon you, observed the stranger, as he ceased swinging Sponge's arm to and fro like a pump-handle; 'I was goin' to call upon you, to see if you'd come over to Washingforde, and have some shootin' at me Oncle's Oncle Gilroy's, at Queercove Hill. 'Most happy! exclaimed Sponge, thinking it was the very thing he wanted.
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