“What, all in along of our bread?” said the previous interrupter, in a pained voice.
“Some of yer are ’ard ter please,” said the cook, deeply offended.
“Don’t mind him, cook,” said the admiring Sam. “You’re a masterpiece, that’s what you are.”
“Of course, if any of you’ve got a better plan”—said the cook generously.
“Don’t talk rubbish, cook,” said Sam; “fetch the two cats out and put ’em together.”
“Don’t mix ’em,” said the cook warningly; “for you’ll never know which is which agin if you do.”
He cautiously opened the top of the sack and produced his captive, and Satan, having been relieved from his prison, the two animals were carefully compared.
“They’re as like as two lumps o’ coal,” said Sam slowly. “Lord, what a joke on the old man. I must tell the mate o’ this; he’ll enjoy it.”
“It’ll be all right if the parrot don’t die,” said the dainty pessimist, still harping on his pet theme. “All that bread spoilt, and two cats aboard.”
“Don’t mind what he ses,” said Sam; “you’re a brick, that’s what you are. I’ll just make a few holes in the lid o’ the boy’s chest, and pop old Satan in. You don’t mind, do you, Billy?”