The dinner went on, with the clattering of knives and forks upon plates, and, the meat being ended, the pudding came along, round, stodgy slices, with glittering bits of yellow suet in it, and here and there a raisin, or plum, as we called it, playing at bo-peep with those on the other side,—“Spotted Dog,” we used to call it,—and I got on a little better, for it was nice and warm and sweet, from the facts that the Doctor never stinted us boys in our food, and that, while the cook always said she hated all boys, she contrived to make our dinners tasty and good.
“Try the pudding,” I whispered to Mercer.
“Shan’t. I should like to shy it bang in old Burr major’s face.”
“Oh, never mind.”
“But I do mind; but just you wait!”
“Well, I am waiting,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me what you mean?”
Mercer was silent.
“I say!”
“Well?”
“You’re not going to give him anything nasty, are you?”