"Well, cook it up extra fancified," Mark ordered. "It'll have to do."
"Glory!" Alan said. "It'll be ambrosia. Why, I've seen 'em over here, no bigger than that, chewing on pickled fish-tails or something."
"Miss Ping-Pong chews no fish-tails," Mark stated. "Not after I've gone to all the trouble of saving her from a muddy grave. Chef, prepare the rice."
At dusk, when the brazier beneath the rice-pot made a small creeping glow within the dark recesses of the Sham-poo, Ping-Pong woke and wailed, as any frightened, hungry baby would wail, waking at twilight in a strange place. Mark abandoned the helm and squatted before her.
"That's all right," he said cheerily. "We're all in the same boat, you know. Literally, by Jimminy! Dinner's coming pronto."
But Ping-Pong wailed the more. Mark was about to reach out and pick her up, to bounce her into a good humor, when he caught his brother's stern eye. He sheepishly resumed the tiller, compromising by snapping his fingers
