“No, no, no!” he yelled, with childlike annoyance. “Plenty ’ticky—plenty ’ticky.”
“Not good,” said Carey, mockingly. “Kill a black fellow.”
Black Jack’s face expanded again into a tremendous grin.
“Yah!” he cried; “baal mumkull. Good—good—good!”
“There you are, then,” said Carey, giving the spoon a twirl and dabbing a goodly portion on the biscuit. “That do?”
“Good, plenty ’ticky,” cried the savage, gumming his face gloriously and grinding up the biscuit as easily as if it were a cracknel.
By this time the others were finishing, and for another quarter of an hour the boy was kept busy at work, to find in the very thick of it that he had an addition to his audience in the shape of the coarse-faced beachcomber, who looked less ferocious now, with his countenance softened by a good-humoured grin.
“Feeding ’em up then,” he said. “Mind they don’t finish up by eating you.”
“I’m not afraid of that,” said Carey, shortly.
“Aren’t you? Well, perhaps we shall see. But it’s your turn now: breakfast. Come on.”