Black Jack did not seem to display the slightest animosity as he pressed forward, grinning and showing a set of the whitest teeth.
“Whar bull cow meat?” he cried. “Baal beef.”
“None cooked yet,” said Carey, shortly.
“What dat?” he cried, and his hand darted at the treacle jar.
Crack!
Carey was as quick, bringing the iron spoon down heavily on the black’s hand, making him utter a sharp cry as he snatched it away, sending his companions into an ecstasy of delight, and making them dance about and twist and writhe.
Black Jack clapped the back of his hand to his mouth, and then, as if the injury were not of the slightest consequence, he pointed now at the jar, in which the boy was inserting the big spoon.
“Dat not good,” he shouted. “Dat mumkull, kill a fellar. Chuck um—chuck um away.”
“Ah, you thick-headed, tar-faced idiot!” cried Carey. “Not good, indeed! I suppose you want raspberry jam.” And he brought out the spoon covered with the stringy treacle, turned it a few times and placed a great dab on one of the biscuits.
“Baal good!” cried Black Jack, angrily. “Mumkull. Black fellow. Chuck um ’way.”