"A terrapin, Van Brunt," interrupted Boggs, "is a hide-bound little beast that sleeps in the mud, is as ugly as the devil, and can bite a tenpenny nail in two with his teeth when he's awake. When he is boiled and picked clean, and served with Madeira, he is the most toothsome compound known to cookery."
"Correctly described, Boggs—'compound' is good," said Lonnegan. "The up-to-date-modern-millionnaire-terrapin, Mr. Van Brunt, is a reptile compounded of glue, chicken-bones, chopped calf's head, and old India-rubber shoes. When ready for use it tastes like flour paste served in hot flannel. I may be wrong about the chopped calf's head, but I'm all right about the India-rubber shoes. I've been eating them this week, and part of a heel is still here"—and he tapped his shirt-front.
"And the canvas-back?" continued Van Brunt, laughing. "It is a duck, is it not?"
"Occasionally a duck—I speak, of course, of tables where I have dined—but seldom a canvas-back."
"And they live in the marshes, I hear, and feed on the wild celery—do they not?"
"No; they live in a cold storage six months in the year, and feed on sawdust and ice," replied Lonnegan with the face of a stone god.
"Hard life, isn't it?" remarked Boggs to the circle at large.
"For the duck?" asked Pitkin.
"No—for Lonnegan. Orders for country houses come high."
"Serves him right!" ventured Marny. "No business eating such messes; ought to get back to——"