"No, Sparks. You take your duffle down to Mr. Biggs' quarters. You can bunk with him durin' this shuttle."
"What! Lancelot Biggs! You're putting me in with that perambulating pretzel? Hey, Cap—"
"You're talkin'," reminded the skipper, "about the first mate of this here tin-can—I mean, ship! Be more respectful of your superiors, Sparks. Anyhow—" He gazed at me curiously. "Anyhow, I thought you an' him was pals?"
"Pals," I moaned, "not peas in a pod! I like Mr. Biggs, Skipper. But I don't want to wear him like a hair-ribbon for the next ten days."
"Sparks!" warned the Old Man.
"Cap, you can't do this to me! It's tyranny, that's what it is!"
"Never mind what you call it!" interrupted the Old Man grimly. "I call it poetic justice. You've buttered your bread, Sparks. Now lie in it. An' while you're complainin', you might remember how aidful you was in findin' Mr. Biggs another bunkmate!"
He grinned vengefully and left. I remembered, then, that I'd helped Lancelot Biggs woo and win Diane, the skipper's beauteous daughter, now back on Earth making preparations for the wedding. And I groaned.
Hansons, like elephants, never forget....