“Bread.”
“Ugh! Don’t! Black dry bread! It makes me feel sick.”
“Bread and milk.”
“Where did you get the milk?”
“Never you mind,” said Pen, plunging his knife into the dark sop which half-filled the little pail. “Now then, you have got to eat first.”
“No, don’t ask me; I can’t touch it,” and the boy closed his eyes against the piece of saturated bread that his companion held out to him on the knife.
“You must,” said Pen; “so look sharp.”
“I can’t, I tell you.”
“Well, then, I shall have to starve.”
“No, no; go on.”