“There, pitch it away,” said Norman, “and come on and have a walk. I’d as soon eat a worm.”
By this time Tim had sniffed again and again, after which he very cautiously bit a tiny piece off one end, hesitated, with his face looking very peculiar before beginning to chew it, but bravely going on; and directly after his face lit up just as his cousins were about to explode with mirth, and he popped the rest of the larva into his mouth, and held out his hand to the black for another.
“Oh! look at the nasty savage,” cried Rifle. “You’ll be ill and sick after it.”
“Shall I?” cried Tim, as with his black face expanding with delight Shanter helped him to some more, and then held out one to Norman to taste.
“I say,” cried the latter, watching his cousin curiously, as he was munching away fast; “they aren’t good, are they?”
“No,” said Rifle; “he’s pretending, so as to cheat us into tasting the disgusting things.”
“But, Tim, are they good?”
“Horrid!” cried the boy, beginning on another. “Don’t you touch ’em.—Here, Shanter, more.”
The black turned over those he had roasting, and went on picking out the brownest, as he squatted on his heels before the fire, and holding them out to Tim.
“Well, of all the nasty creatures I ever did see,” said Norman, “you are the worst, Tim.”