“Well, find him a job, then.”
“What sort of a job?”
“Oh, any old sort.”
“He can be a waiter if he likes.”
“All right; I’ll put the matter before him.”
He returned to the bedroom. The Sausage Chappie was gazing fondly into the mirror with a spotted tie draped round his neck.
“I say, old top,” said Archie, apologetically, “the Emperor of the Blighters out yonder says you can have a job here as waiter, and he won’t do another dashed thing for you. How about it?”
“Do waiters eat?”
“I suppose so. Though, by Jove, come to think of it, I’ve never seen one at it.”
“That’s good enough for me!” said the Sausage Chappie. “When do I begin?”