"Not at all, if you care about it," said the Gray Goose kindly.
"Squawker'll be good now, won't he, Father?"

"Oh, I'm sure he'll be good," Ann cried, and she ran ahead of Rudolf
to catch hold of one of the thin yellow legs and give it a mighty
pull.

"He'll be good," said the Gentleman Goose gravely, speaking for the
first time, "when he's roasted. Very good indeed'll Squawker be--with
apple sauce!" And he smacked his lips and winked at Peter who was
standing close beside him, looking up earnestly into his face.

Peter thought a moment. Then he said: "_I_ likes currant jelly on my
duck. I eats apple sauce on goose."

The Gentleman Goose appeared suddenly uncomfortable. He began
nervously stuffing little parcels of the feathers he had been weighing
into small blue and white striped bags, which he threw one after the
other to Squealer, who never by any chance caught them as he turned
his back at every throw. "I suppose," said the Gentleman Goose to
Peter in a hesitating, anxious sort of voice, "you believe along with
all the rest, what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,
don't you? I suppose there's nothing sauce-y about yourself now, is
there?" And apparently comforted by his miserable little joke he went
on with his weighing.

By this time the other little duck had been hauled out of the heap of
feathers by Ann and Rudolf, and stood coughing and sneezing and
gasping in the middle of the floor. As soon as he had breath enough he