"Suppose it is missed in the morning—I mean, what we eat," suggested some one, timidly.
"Cats!" settled Boston with laconic contempt.
"But cats don't eat cheese, and—"
"Bah! cats eat anything, from mice to stewed-eels' feet. Who will follow if I lead?"
"Couldn't you get in and hand something out?" asked another, coolly.
"Wish you may get it. Travers, you will follow, will you not?"
"Yes," I replied, with a little inward shudder. "'Lead on, Macduff, and'—and, what you may call it, be him that first cries 'Hold, enough!'"
"Old enough for what?" queried the wit of the party.
"Look here, Jenkins, don't you be a fool; this is not the time for vile puns, or Shakspeare either," with a frown at me.
"It will take a jolly long time for us all to get in one after the other," I ruminated upon this snub.