They carried Buster up to their camp in the woods, and brought out a can of condensed milk. After warming some of this over the fire, they gave it to Buster.
Nothing ever tasted so good as that milk, for Buster was cold, tired and still trembling from fright and weakness. He didn’t know it until then, but he was dreadfully hungry, so hungry that he couldn’t stop until he had lapped up the last drop.
The two men watched him in silence, and then patted him on the back. “You were hungry, little chap, weren’t you?” remarked one. “Well, that’s enough for the present. We don’t want to make you sick.”
“Oh, give him a bit of this honey-comb for dessert. That won’t hurt him.”
And then to Buster’s delight, the man handed him something, the very odor of which sent the blood tingling through his veins. One taste of it, and Buster was in ecstasy. It was his first taste of honey, and the grunt of pleasure that escaped his lips sent the men into a roar of laughter.
“The little chap’s having the time of his life,” one laughed. “Like Oliver Twist he’ll be begging for more when that’s gone.” Of course, Buster didn’t know anything about Oliver Twist, but he did know that he could eat that delicious honey all day, and when the last drop was gone he did beg for more.
“Stand on your hind legs and ask for it, and I’ll give it to you,” said the man.
Buster didn’t know exactly what he meant, but it was much easier to reach up to the hand containing the honey when he stood on two legs, and he unconsciously obeyed.
“Now ask for it.”
Buster opened his mouth and snapped at it, but the hand was raised beyond his reach. Then, disappointed, he uttered a little cry of eagerness. To his surprise the man gave him the honey.