“Birds’-ness soup; velly cost much. Not all birds’-ness. Some shark-fis’ fin.”
“I don’t mean that, I tell you,” cried Smith in an exasperated tone of voice. “I mean that other brown meat cut up small into the brown sauce. It was rabbit, wasn’t it?”
“Oh no,” said Ching decisively; “no labbit. Lit’ mince-up pup-dog. Nicee nicee.”
Smith turned green, and his eyes rolled so that he actually squinted; while Barkins uttered a low sound-like gasp. As for me, I felt as I remember feeling after partaking meekly of what one of my aunts used to call prune tea—a decoction made by boiling so many French plums along with half an ounce of senna leaves.
“Oh gracious!” murmured Barkins; while Smith uttered a low groan.
“You both likee more?” said Ching blandly.
“No!” they cried so unanimously that it was like one voice; and in spite of my own disgust and unpleasant sensations I felt as if I must laugh at them.
“Oh, mawkish morsels!” muttered Barkins.
“You feel you have ’nuff?” said Ching, smiling. “Oh no. Loas’ suck-pig come soon. You eat velly much more.”
“Not if I know it,” whispered Smith to me. “I don’t believe it’ll be pig.”