“Of course you had to make bread, didn’t you?  Just because you know I’m starving.”

“It come tails, didn’t it?” Jerry inquired, with aggravating pleasantness.  “It ain’t my fault you’re starving, and you got all night to cook what you want—­after I’m done. I don’t care if you bake a layer cake and freeze ice-cream.  You can put your front feet in the trough and champ your swill; you can root and waller in it, for all of me. I won’t hurry you, not in the least.”

“It’s come tails every time lately,” grumbled the former speaker.

Jerry giggled.  “I always was right lucky, except in pickin’ pardners,” he declared.  In a cracked and tuneless voice he began humming a roundelay, evidently intended to express gaiety and contentment.

Unable longer to withstand his gnawing hunger, Tom secured for himself a large round hardtack, and with this he tried to ward off the pangs of starvation.  But he had small success with the endeavor, for his teeth were poor.  He flung the thing of adamant aside, finally, and cried, testily: 

“My God!  Ain’t it bad enough to eat a phonograph record without having to listen to the damn’ machine?  Shut up, will you?  You’ve got the indecentest singing voice I ever heard.”

“Say!” Jerry looked up belligerently.  “You don’t have to listen to my singin’.  There’s plenty of room outside—­all the room from here south to Seattle.  And you don’t have to gum that pilot-bread if your teeth is loose.  You can boil yourself a pot of mush—­when your turn comes.  You got a free hand.  As for me, I eat anything I want to and I sing anything I want to whenever I want to, and I’d like to see anybody stop me.  We don’t have to toss up for turns at singin’.”  More loudly he raised his high-pitched voice; ostentatiously he rattled his dishes.

Tom settled back in exasperated silence, but as time wore on and his hungry nostrils were assailed with the warm, tantalizing odor of frying ham fat he fidgeted nervously.

Having prepared a meal to his liking, Jerry set the table with a single plate, cup, and saucer, then seated himself with a luxurious grunt.  He ate slowly; he rolled every mouthful with relish; he fletcherized it with calculated deliberation; he paused betweentimes to blow loudly upon his coffee and to smack his lips--sounds that in themselves were a provocation and an insult to his listener.  When he had cleaned up his interminable repast and was finishing the last scrap, Tom rose and made for the stove.

Jerry watched him, paralyzed in mid-motion, until his partner’s hand was outstretched, then he suddenly shouted: 

“Get away from there!”

Tom started.  “What for?” he queried, a light of rebellion flaring into his eyes.  “Ain’t you through with your supper?  You been at it long enough.”

“You see me eatin’, don’t you?  After I get fed up and my teeth picked I got all my dishes to wash.”