“Get out. Think I’m going to turn savage because I’ve come to Australia? Don’t catch me feeding like a bird. You’ll want to eat snails next.”
“Well,” said Norman, “Frenchmen eat snails.”
“So they do frogs. Let ’em.”
“But this thing smells so nice. I say, Rifle, bite it and try.”
“Bite it yourself.”
Norman did, in a slow, hesitating way, looked as if he were going to eject the morsel as the corners of his lips turned down, but bit a piece more instead, then popped the remaining half in his mouth, and smiled.
“Horrid, ain’t they?” cried Tim, while, grinning with genuine pleasure, the black held out another to Norman, who took it directly, held it in first one hand, and then the other, blew upon it to cool it, and then began to eat.
“Oh, they are horrid,” he cried. “Give us another, blacky.”
“Look here,” cried Rifle, watching him curiously, to see if there was any deceit. “I’m not going to be beaten by you two. I say—no games—are they really nice?”
“Find out,” cried Norman, stretching out his hand to take another from the pointed stick held out to him. But Rifle was too quick; he snatched it himself, and put it in his mouth directly.