had to do the best she could with milk and cream. . . .
And, when at last they sat down to table—Aunt, the three girls and Gerrit, the enthusiastic Gerrit—Aunt and the little cousins would laugh aloud:
"Allah, that boy Herrit!"
And they vied with one another who should help him, very carefully, so that the rice should not make a messy heap on his plate:
"No, don't mix up your food!" Aunt Lot entreated. "That Dhutch totok[1] way of mixing up everything together: I can't stand it. Keep your rice clean, as clean as you can."
"Yes, Aunt, as maidenly as a young girl!" cried Gerrit, with sparkling eyes.
And Aunt again laughed till the tears came: too bhad, you know!
"And now your lodeh in the little saucer . . . that's it . . . so-o! . . . And the sambal,[2] neatly on the edge of your plate: don't mix it up, Herrit! . . . Oh, that boy Herrit! . . . Take a taste now: each sambal with a spoonful of rice . . . that's it . . . so-o! . . . The kroepoek on the table-cloth . . . that's it . . . so-o! . . . And now ghobble away . . . Allah, that boy Herrit: he'd murder his own father for nassi! . . . Kassian, Van Lowe!"
