"That's because he lives on nothing," rejoined Marny. "Tine puts the toast in the oven over night so it will be dry enough for him in the morning—she told me so yesterday. Now he's running on sour milk and vinegar—'blood too alkaline,' he says—got a chalky taste in his mouth!"
"Well, whatever it is, he's a rum-nuisance," said Pudfut, "and he ought to be jumped on."
"Yes," retorted Stebbins, "but not about his food. Jump on him about his health, then he'll kick back and in pure obstinacy begin to think he's well—that's his nature."
"Don't you do anything of the kind," protested Marny. "Joppy's all right—best lad I know. Let him talk; doesn't hurt anybody and keeps everything alive. A little hot air now and then helps his epigastric."
Malone and Schonholz had raised themselves on their elbows, twisted their shoulders and had put their heads together—literally—without lifting their lazy bodies from the warm, dry grass—so close that one slouch hat instead of two might have covered their conspiring brains. From under the rims of these thatches came smothered laughs and such unintelligible mutterings as:
"Dot's de vay, by chimminy, 'Loney! And den I—"
"No, begorra! Let me have a crack at him fu'st!"
"No, I vill before go and you come—"
"Not a word to Marny, remimber; he'd give it away—"
"Yes, but we vill tell Poodfut und Sthebbins, eh?"