“You see,” he said, with a sort of half attempt at an apology, “I was afraid the poor, dear Dodo, in his delicate state of health, might come in to breakfast and eat more than was good for him; so, by eating the lot myself, I have prevented him from doing that. He ought to be very grateful to me, I’m sure.”
“But what about the others?” asked Dick.
“Oh, great, strong, healthy animals like them, it will do them good to go without for once in a way. I think, though, that in order to prevent them from feeling any disappointment it will be better to throw the basins out of the window, the sight of them would probably be rather tantalizing.” And the Eterædarium began hurriedly to throw all the breakfast things out of the window—spoons, basins, tablecloths, and serviettes, all disappeared, and only the three basins which the children had been using remained.
They, doubtless, would have followed the others had not the Dodo, leaning heavily on the Prehistoric Doctor’s arm, entered the breakfast car just at that moment.
“Ah! bread-and-milk—capital!” exclaimed the Doctor, rubbing his hands, and looking at the children’s basins. “I think our patient could manage a small basinful, eh?”
The Dodo, with a great affectation of weakness, feebly nodded his head.
“I think I could manage a small basinful, Doctor—er—er—not too small, you know. A very small quantity never agrees with me.”
“No, no; of course not,” said the Doctor, soothingly. “I will see that it is not too small; and perhaps, just to encourage you, I will have a basinful myself.”
“It’s all gone!” said the Eterædarium, suddenly and emphatically.
“Gone!” screamed the Dodo, in a loud voice, quite forgetting his supposed weakness. “Do you mean to say there is none left?”