“Yes.”
“Oh!”
“You wait and see!”
“But you mustn’t; it wouldn’t do.”
“Wouldn’t it? Ah, just you wait. We’ll make ’em sorry for this.”
“I’m not going to do anything nasty,” I said sturdily.
“Yes, you are; you’re going to do as I do. We’re mates, and you’ve got to help me as I helped you.”
I thought of the pot marked “poison;” of Dicksee being bad through taking something Mercer had given him; and a curious sensation of sickness came over me, and I left half my pudding, just as Mercer took up his fork, chopped his disk up into eight pieces, and began to bolt them fiercely.
“Eat your pudding,” he said, noticing that I had left off.
“Can’t. I’ve had enough.”