‘Food! Food!’ cried Creamy excitedly, as he ran. Then, with a rush of air, he shot past Lennie and fell upon the plates. Paws gripping the table, he buried his face in the food. For a while, nothing could be heard but the sound of slurping and happy growling, as he worked his way along the table.

‘Aren't you going to eat, Lennie?’ mumbled Creamy, lifting his head suddenly and pausing for breath.

‘Well, I haven't exactly had a chance to get at a plate, have I?’

But Creamy was not listening. His eyes were sweeping up and down the table, searching for his favourite food, even though he had already polished off a large platter in the middle of the table.

‘Wonder if there's any honey round here somewhere…’ he muttered, his cheeks bulging with food he could not swallow fast enough.

Lennie chuckled. ‘Honey?’ he repeated, ‘Funny you should wonder about honey. Generally speaking, dogs aren't all that keen on honey.’

Creamy nearly choked. He completely forgot.

‘Of course not,’ he blustered, ‘I meant …. er… mustard, of course. Ah, here it is,’ he said sinking his paw into a large yellow pot, and then licking it, trying not to wince.

Lennie grinned. ‘If I were you…’ he began. But before he could say any more, the door to the lounge burst open and a pile of yellow and orange lifejackets came staggering in.

Creamy, his back to the room, saw nothing, and heard nothing. He was lifting another plate off the table, when all of a sudden, instead of the plate coming up to his mouth, he was lying on the table, with his face right in the food. It was because the steward carrying the lifebelts, unable to see his way, had walked straight into Creamy and fell on top of him.

An awful cry of man and beast rent the air. Lennie watched helplessly as they thrashed about - arms, legs and plates all tangled up.