"I say, butcher!" said one of them, "don't you think a bit of meat would be just the thing for us?"
The speaker, whom the country had for the last twenty-five years known as a freebooter of the worst kind, was a sturdy gray-haired man, while the fellow he addressed was young and—as Ratz Andor, for such was the elder robber's name, would have it—inexperienced.
"Go to the devil!" replied the young man. "Why do you talk to me of meat?"
"Wouldn't you like it? Now, I say, you would not mind having some tobacco, would you?"
"Curse you, and begone! Why should you talk of it, since there's neither meat nor tobacco!"
"I thought you'd like a bite or a whiff; don't you?"
"You're always joking," said the butcher. "We have not had any grub ever so long. I can't stand it. I'd rather be hanged than starved to death."
"Why don't you go for something?" sneered Andor.
"How can I? you know the bees are swarming. Hand me the culatsh, old fellow!"
"Take it."