“Don’t be a prig,” Whisky returned, wandering over to Sam, “Well, my old,” he went on to Sam, resting his long muzzle on Sam’s knee, “What have you got for my breakfast? That ham looked a little fat to me.”
“I’ll cut the fat off,” Sam said. “Don’t worry about a little thing like that, or I’ve got a steak. Howjer like that?”
“Mmm,” Whisky said. “Let’s go find it. That sounds like something.”
They went off into the kitchen.
“The airs and graces that dog gives himself kills me,” I said. “Steak for breakfast! He’ll get too fat.”
“Too fat for what?” Sam asked, putting his head round the door. “You be careful what you’re saying. You ain’t no hour-glass yourself.”
“From where I’m standing,” Whisky added, pushing his snout round the door, “that bulge in your waist line looks like a six-course lunch the waiter forgot, to take out of the casserole.”
“Aw, beat it, you two,” I said grinning. “My waist line’s all right. Well, I’ll get over to the Recorder. So long, Doc.”
Ansell waved, “So long,” he said.
I thought I’d say hello and good-bye to Myra so I tapped on her door.