"I don't mean to say anything," said the cook. "Answer my question. You ain't felt no pain lately, 'ave you?"
"Have—you—been—putting—p'ison—in—my—wittles?" demanded Mr. Lister, in trembling accents.
"If I 'ad, Jem, supposin' that I 'ad," said the cook, in accents of reproachful surprise, "do you mean to say that you'd mind?"
"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.