"Lemme in," said a mild, low voice, "I want some o' that pie."
"Massy sake!" the cook gasped in disgust, "ef it ain't dat no 'count
Kipping."
"Lemme in," persisted the mild, plaintive voice. "Lemme in."
"Aw, go 'long! Dah ain't no pie in heah," the cook retorted. "You's
dreamin', dat's what you is. You needs a good dose of medicine, dat's what
you needs."
"I'm dreaming, am I?" the mild voice repeated. "Oh, yes, I'm dreaming I am,
ain't I? I didn't sneak around the galley yesterday morning and hear you
tell that cocky little fool to come and get a piece of pie tonight. Oh, no!
I didn't see him come prowling around when he thought no one was looking.
Oh, no! I didn't see you come out of the galley like you didn't know there
was anybody on deck, and walk right under the rigging where I was waiting
for just such tricks. Oh, no! I was dreaming, I was. Oh, yes."
"Dat Kipping," the cook whispered, "he's hand and foot with Mistah Falk."
"Lemme in, you woolly-headed son of perdition, or I swear I'll take the
kinky scalp right off your round old head."
"He's gettin' violenter," the cook whispered, eyeing me questioningly.
Saying nothing, I swallowed the last bit of pie.
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