He made a snatch at the biscuit, but down came the spoon on his black hand.
“Yah!” he yelled, and clapped the treacly place to his mouth, tasted the molasses, and the fierce look died out, his countenance expanding into a grin as he sucked, and then in good animal fashion began to lick, holding out his other hand for the biscuit.
The next minute he was munching away in a high state of delight, while the others crowded round with hands extended, and were served as fast as the boy could place dabs of the sticky syrup on the hard biscuits.
They crowded him so that several times over he whisked the spoon round, giving one a dab on the hand, another on the cheek, while one had a topper on his thick, black-haired head—all these rebuffs being received with shouts of laughter, the recipients setting to work at once to prevent the saccharine mess from being wasted.
But at last all were supplied, and the boy rested for half a minute, looking at the merry, delighted crowd with good-humoured contempt.
“Well, you are a set of savages,” he said.
“More—gib more,” cried Black Jack, who had just finished.
“You look a pretty sticky beauty,” said Carey.
“Berry ’ticky good,” said Black Jack. “Gib more; plenty ’ticky.”
Carey took another biscuit from the basket and put a very small dab of treacle upon it, to the black’s great disgust.