“I can’t stand the abominable stuff any longer,” he cried.
“Neither can I,” said Bruce.
“Nor I”—“Nor I”—“Nor I”—said all the others; and the fragments of the lobster were all contemptuously thrown away.
“What are we going to do about it?” asked Tom Crawford, mournfully.
“I wouldn’t care if there was even a raw potato,” said Bart, “or a mouldy ship-biscuit, or an old dried turnip, or a bit of pork, or anything else to eat with it so as to take off the edge of it; but to eat nothing else but this everlasting lobster, lobster, lobster, is more than I can stand.”
“Tea last night,” said Tom Crawford, dolefully, “lobster. Breakfast this morning, lobster. During the morning I felt hollow—lobster. At dinner, lobster. For my part, I’ve had enough of it.”
“What can we do?”
“I’m tired of shrimps.”
“Bother shrimps.”
“O for a good slice of bread and butter!”