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Cry Egg!

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Castor's stealthy approach to the kitchen bin, its lid slightly askew, was arrested by Bodie's crow of triumph.

"What?" Doyle demanded.

"Eggs! Look at this report, Ray. Not unhealthy after all!"

"Oh, that," Doyle agreed casually. "Didn't I tell you?"

"No, you bloody well didn't. I could have them every breakfast, not just once a week!"

"I knew you'd start wolfing them down and I -- "

"Yeah. Starting now! Four! Fried in butter! Just in time for Easter!"

"And they're constipating. Eat that many, you'll probably end up bound rigid."

Bodie paused, considering practicalities. "Never had to worry about that in the old days," he grumbled. "Advantages to sticking to the straight and narrow."

"Except scaring your girlfriends off with farts from the pit of hell!"

"Well, you might have to stay out of the pit for a couple of days, then. Extra fun for yours."

"Just two, all right?"

"Proper little mother hen you are these days, ever since you turned sixty!"

"Cluck off! I'm not laying eggs for you."

"Two, then. We'll sort out who lays who -- or what -- later."

As Bodie entered the kitchen Castor abandoned his quest but looked hopefully at the opened refrigerator. Pollux came bounding in to claim his share of anything going.

Bodie dropped a couple of scraps of cold chicken. "Happy Easter, you horrible mogs, but don't tell Ray."

They didn't.