Bill waited for them to have done and fling him his share. In common with all Bohemians, he liked regular meals.
"That dog's goin' silly," said Trotter, looking at him where he lay.
"Oh, him!" said the Signor.
"He's bin loafin' a furlong be'ind all the mornin'," said Trotter. "Yer know if he was to get lazy, it 'ud be a poor lookout for us. He's bin spoilt, that dog 'as spoilt with indulgence. Soon as we stop for a spell oh, he plops down on 'is belly and 'angs on for us to chuck 'im a bit of grub. Might be a man by the ways of 'im, 'stead of a dog. Now I don't 'old with spoilin' dogs."
"Pass da beer," requested the Signor.
Bill looked up with concern, for Trotter was filling his pipe; the meal was at an end.
"Yus, yer can look," snarled Trotter. "You'll wait, you will."
He began to pack up the bread and meat again in the towel where it belonged.
"Think you've got yer rights, don't yer?" he growled, as he swept the fragments together. "No dog comes them games on me. Hey, get out, ye brute!"
Bill had walked over and was now helping himself to the food that lay between Trotter's very hands.