"Oh, Boy, forbear!" the Tenor exclaimed at last, "or you will be the death of me."
"That's it," the Boy responded cheerfully. "I mean to be life or death to you."
After this he sat down on a high-backed chair, with his hands in his pockets, his legs stretched out before him, and his chin on his chest, looking up from under his eyebrows at the Tenor thoughtfully. It was an interval of great gravity, and when he spoke again the Tenor looked for something serious.
"I say," he began at last.
The Tenor took his pipe from his mouth and waited, interrogatively.
"I say, I'm hungry."
The Tenor looked his dismay.
"Boys always are, you know," the youth added, encouragingly.
"And if there should be nothing in the house!" the poor Tenor ejaculated.
"I'll go and see."
He returned quite crestfallen. "There is nothing," he said; "at least nothing but bread—no butter even."