“Nonsense! No.”
“Shanter all soff in frontum.”
“Take the bread.”
Every one was laughing and watching the little scone with intense enjoyment as, full of doubt and suspicion, the black advanced his hand again very cautiously, and nearly touched the bread, when Aunt Georgie uttered a contemptuous “pish!” whose effect was to make the man bound back a couple of yards, to the lady’s great disgust.
“I’ve a great mind to throw it at his stupid, cowardly head,” she cried angrily.
“Don’t do that,” said the captain, wiping his eyes. “Poor fellow! he has been tricked before. A burned child fears the fire.—Hi! Ashantee, take the bread,” said the captain, and he wiped his eyes again.
“Make um all cry,” said the black, apostrophising Aunt Georgie; then, turning to the captain, “Big white Mary won’t tick knifum in poor Shanter?”
“No, no, she will not.—Here, auntie, give him the bread with your hand.”
“I won’t,” said Aunt Georgie, emphatically. “I will not encourage his nasty, suspicious thoughts. He must be taught better. As if I, an English lady, would do such a thing as behave like a murderous bravo of Venice.—Come here, sir, directly, and take that bread off the point of the knife,” and she accompanied her words with an unmistakable piece of pantomime, holding the bread out, and pointing with one finger.
“Don’t, pray, don’t stop the fun, uncle,” whispered Tim.