[ CHAPTER XIV.]
A TERRIBLE WORD.
When I met my old friend Whiskerandos, it was usually at night, as moving about by day was dangerous; for who ever showed mercy to a rat, or even thought of inquiring whether he possessed qualities which might render him deserving of it?
“How do you like your quarters?” said Whiskerandos to me one starry night, when all was still upon deck, and, save one sailor on the watch, all of humankind were sleeping.
“They please me well enough,” I replied.
“For my part,” said Whiskerandos, “I shall be heartily glad when our voyage is over; and I am half vexed that I ever led you to make it.”
“Why so? We do not fare ill; we have plenty to eat.” As I have mentioned before, this is ever the first consideration with a rat.
“The sailors don’t starve,” said Whiskerandos more slowly; “yet they think of adding another dish to their mess.”
“Glad to hear it,” said I; “you know that I am curious about dishes, and should like to have my whiskers in a new one.”
“Oh! but they won’t be contented with your whiskers!” cried my friend, with a funny, forced laugh.
“What do you mean?” said I quickly.