“Oh, don’t talk about me, Tom. I’m as weak as a child now.”
“Nat’rally, sir. Your muscles is done up, and what you ought to do now is to see if you can’t hit on some dodge.”
“Tom,” cried Murray despairingly, “I’ve tried to hit on some plan till my brains refuse to act.”
“Yes, sir; nat’rally, sir; but can’t yer hit on something in the blowing-up-of-the-beggars line?”
“Tom!” cried the lad passionately. “How can I scheme an explosion and blow the wretches up without powder?”
“Zackly so, sir; that’s what I’ve been thinking. You can’t, can yer?”
“No, Tom.”
“Couldn’t make a big pot or kettle so hot that when they come along next time it would bust, could you, sir?”
“No, Tom, I certainly could not,” said the middy decisively.
“Course not, sir,” growled the man, frowning.