"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.

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."