“You eat one, then,” cried Norman. “I’ll shoot the first I see.”
“Look here,” cried Tim; “are either of you two going to taste one of these things?”
“No,” cried both the others; “nor you. You daren’t eat one.”
“Oh, daren’t I? You’ll see,” replied Tim. “Here, Shanter, give me that brown one.”
“Good!” cried the black, raking out one looking of a delicate golden-brown, but it was too hot to hold for a time; and Tim held it on a pointed stick, looking at the morsel with his brow all puckered up.
“Go on, Tim; take it like a pill,” cried Norman.
“He won’t eat it: he’s afraid,” said Rifle.
“It’s too hot yet,” replied Tim.
“Yes, and always will be. Look out, Rifle; he’ll pitch it over his shoulder, and pretend he swallowed it.”
“No, I shan’t,” said Tim, sniffing at his delicacy, while the black watched him too, and kept on saying it was good.