“MIND,” said Mr. Lister, with fervour. “I'd 'ave you 'ung!”
“But you said you wanted to die,” said the surprised cook.
Mr. Lister swore at him with startling vigour. “I'll 'ave you 'ung,” he repeated, wildly.
“Me,” said the cook, artlessly. “What for?”
“For giving me p'ison,” said Mr. Lister, frantically. “Do you think you can deceive me by your roundabouts? Do you think I can't see through you?”
The other with a sphinx-like smile sat unmoved. “Prove it,” he said, darkly. “But supposin' if anybody 'ad been givin' you p'ison, would you like to take something to prevent its acting?”
“I'd take gallons of it,” said Mr. Lister, feverishly.
The other sat pondering, while the old man watched him anxiously. “It's a pity you don't know your own mind, Jem,” he said, at length; “still, you know your own business best. But it's very expensive stuff.”
“How much?” inquired the other.
“Well, they won't sell more than two shillings-worth at a time,” said the cook, trying to speak carelessly, “but if you like to let me 'ave the money, I'll go ashore to the chemist's and get the first lot now.”