“Ike, I see another light. It may mean disaster, and it may mean deliverance. Shall we try it?”
“Any port in a storm, Magpie. Lead us to the light. My arms are cramped, and my ear-drums are sore, but I’m game for anything from milk to murder.”
Magpie is some pilot, if you asks me. We drifted into a section of plowed ground which has got soaked with rain, and it hung to our feet like molasses. I sat down twice during the voyage, and we sure are a sticky-looking mess when we arrive at the door of that forlorn-looking shack.
Magpie knocks on the door. After a while we hears a commotion inside, and the door opens. The face that leans out to us looks like a busted mattress. The hair on it seems to grow straight ahead like the quills on a peevish porkypine.
“Milk?” pronounces Magpie.
The bushy-faced person seemed to take it under consideration.
“Milk?” says Magpie again.
“Vizoffvufforskilloff?” he asks deep-like.
The babies renew their concert, and the carbonated critter stretches his neck a little longer.
“Mffvuffzizzskoyiffsky?” he asks.