“There’s a pub down here, cook,” he said in a trembling voice, “an’ there’s an old chap there I can’t be certain of. S’pose you go an’ have a look at ’im.”
“Which one?” inquired his innocent friend.
Full of a great joy, Sam led him to the place of his mortification, and waiting until he was fairly in, stood listening behind the door.
“Why don’t they speak up?” he said crossly, as a low, indistinct murmuring reached him. He strained his ears intently, but could not catch anything, and losing all patience, was just about to push the door open and peep in when he heard a roar of laughter. Peal upon peal sounded until the bar shook with it, and an expression of peace and rest came over his face as he pictured the scene inside.
“Don’t,” said the cook’s voice feebly.
There was another roar of laughter, to which Sam grinned a silent accompaniment.
“You’ll kill me,” said the cook again, in a choking voice.
“No worse for you than for me, my lad,” said Sam, with great content.
There was another roar in which Sam, to his amazement, fancied that the cook joined. He was still listening in a state of maddening perplexity when he heard the cook’s voice again.
“Poor old Sam!” it said distinctly. “Poor old Sam! I’d ’ave given anythin’ to ’ave seen him.”