"Tom lives on songs," said Sam slyly. "He'd rather sing than eat a pie."
"Pie!" thundered Tom tragically. "Who said pie? I haven't seen a home-made pie since—since"
"The time you went down in the pantry at midnight and ate two," finished Dick, and then there was a burst of laughter.
"Never mind, Tom, I'll make you half a dozen pies—when we get home," came from Nellie.
"Will you really?" said Tom, and then he began once more, as gayly as ever:
"You can give me pudding
And give me cake,
And anything else
You care to bake;
But if you wish
To charm my eye,
Just hand me over
Some home-made pie!"
"That's all right," said Dick. "But in place of eye you should have said stomach."
"Stomach doesn't rhyme with pie," snorted Tom. "I'm a true poet and I know what I am doing."
"Talking about pie makes me think of pie-plates," said Sam. "Let us play spinning the plate on deck. It will be lots of fun trying to
