“What’s your name?” asked Phil; “mine is Philip Maylands.”
“Mine’s Peter Pax,” answered the small boy, returning to his goblet; “but I’ve no end of aliases—such as Mouse, Monkey, Spider, Snipe, Imp, and Little ’un. Call me what you please, it’s all one to me, so as you don’t call me too late for dinner.”
“And what have you got there, Pax?” asked Phil, referring to the pot.
“A plum-pudding.”
“Do two or three of you share it?”
“Certainly not,” replied the boy.
“What! you don’t mean to say you can eat it all yourself for dinner?”
“The extent of my ability in the disposal of wittles,” answered Pax, “I have never fairly tested. I think I could eat this at one meal, though I ain’t sure, but it’s meant to serve me all day. You see I find a good, solid, well-made plum-pudding, with not too much suet, and a moderate allowance of currants and raisins, an admirable squencher of appetite. It’s portable too, and keeps well. Besides, if I can’t get through with it at supper, it fries up next mornin’ splendidly.—Come, I’ll let you taste a bit, an’ that’s a favour w’ich I wouldn’t grant to every one.”
“No, thank ’ee, Pax. I’m already loaded and primed for the forenoon, but I’ll sit by you while you eat, and chat.”
“You’re welcome,” returned Pax, “only don’t be cheeky, Philip, as I can’t meet you on an equal footing w’en I’m at grub.”