“No, no. Cut him one great lump.”
Aunt Georgie sighed, opened a white napkin, took out a large loaf, and cut off about a third, which she impaled on the point of the knife, and held out at arm’s length, while another roar of laughter rose at the scene which ensued.
For the black looked at the bread, then at Aunt Georgie, then at the bread again suspiciously. There was the gleaming point of that knife hidden within the soft crumb; and as his mental capacity was nearly as dark as his skin, and his faith in the whites, unfortunately—from the class he had encountered and from whom he had received more than one piece of cruel ill-usage—far from perfect, he saw in imagination that sharp point suddenly thrust right through and into his black flesh as soon as he tried to take the piece of loaf.
The boys literally shrieked as the black stretched out a hand, made a feint to take it, and snatched it back again.
“Take it, you stupid!” cried Aunt Georgie, with a menacing gesture.
“Hetty—Ida—look!” whispered Tim, as the black advanced a hand again, but more cautiously.
“Mind!” shouted Rifle; and the black bounded back, turned to look at the boy, and then showed his white teeth.
“Are you going to take this bread?” cried Aunt Georgie, authoritatively.
“No tick a knifum in Shanter?” said the black in reply.