“Anybody can belong to a trade,” said the other looking hard at the speaker; “but the point is, are you a greenhand or a master of the craft?”
“I reckon we shall tell how far we have learnt the trade while drinking and chatting together.”
“All right then!” said the other, walking up to the door, while the inviter showed the table set out with the wine. The man took the tumbler, eyed the contents as if he had doubts, but they disappeared when the stranger poured himself out a second brimmer.
“Why, hang it all, are you getting so proud that you will not drink with a shopmate?”
“No, dash me if I am—here is Good Luck to the Nation!”
The workman’s grey eyes were fixed on the toast-giver’s.
He tossed off the glass at a draft, and wiped his lips on his sleeve.
“Deuse take it, but it is Burgundy wine,” he remarked.
“And good liquor, too, eh? the vintage was recommended to me; and happening along I dropped in, and I am not repenting it. But why not sit down and be at home? there is some more in the bottle and more in the cellar when that is gone.”
“I say, what are you working at here?”