admitting that our admirable friend, Sam, may have unwittingly
disturbed the composure of our admirable friend, Bill, at the
expense of our admirable Puddin's gravy, let us, I say, by the
simple act of extending the hand of friendship, dispel in an
instant these gathering clouds of disruption. In the words of
the poem--

`Then let the fist of Friendship
Be kept for Friendship's foes.
Ne'er let that hand in anger land
On Friendship's holy nose.'"

These fine sentiments at once dispelled Bill's anger. He shook
hands warmly with Sam, wiped the gravy from his face, and resumed
breakfast with every appearance of hearty good humour.

The meal over, the breakfast things were put away in the bag, Sam
and Bill took Puddin' between them, and all set off along the
road, enlivening the way with song and story. Bill regaled them
with portions of the "Ballad of the Salt Junk Sarah," which is one
of those songs that go on for ever. Its great advantage, as Bill
remarked, was that as it hadn't got an ending it didn't need a
beginning, so you could start it anywhere.

"As for instance," said Bill, and he roared out--

"Ho, aboard the Salt Junk Sarah,
Rollin' home across the line,
The Bo'sun collared the Captain's hat
And threw it in the brine.