"Ahem!" coughed Mr. Mole. "No matter. You are too much given to useless arguments, Jack. I believe you would argue with the doctor attending you on your deathbed—yea, with the undertaker himself who had to bury you."
"That's piling it on, sir," said Jack, in a half-reflective mood. "I dare say I should have a shy at the doctor if he tried to prove something too idiotic, but we must draw the line at the doctor. I couldn't argue with the undertaker at my own funeral, but I'll tell you what, Mr. Mole, no doubt I shall argue with him if he puts it on too stiff in his bill when we put you away."
"Jack!" exclaimed Mr. Mole, inexpressibly shocked.
"A plain deal coffin," pursued Jack, apparently lost in deep calculation; "an economical coffin, only half the length of an ordinary coffin, because you could unscrew your legs, and leave them to someone."
"That is very unfeeling to talk of my funeral, dreadful!"
"You are only joking there, I know, sir," returned Jack, "because you were talking of mine."
"Ahem!" said Mole, "do you see how near we are to land?"
"Quite so, quite so."
"Go and ask the captain the name of this port."
It proved to be Marseilles, and the captain knew it, as he had been sailing for it, and, moreover, they were very quickly ashore.