Young Crowberry fumbled in his pockets and fished up a manuscript phrase-book which had been compiled for him, he pretended, by some pitiful friend in Oporto. After turning the pages this way and that, he asked:
"Está prompto o almoço?" Young Crowberry meant "Is breakfast ready?"
"Not quite," said Antonio.
"O que tem Fossa Mercê: What has your Worship got?"
"Brown bread, green figs, white cheese, purple grapes, red wine, and black coffee."
"De-me alguma bebida: Give me something to drink."
"I don't understand," said Antonio, shaking his head.
José, hearing voices, thrust his shaggy face through the window and glared at young Crowberry, with his mouth almost as wide open as his eyes.
"This," said Antonio, "is José Ribeiro, the régisseur of the Château da Rocha. He knows more about sea-sand wine than any other man north of Collares." And, turning to José, he explained in Portuguese: "You have heard me speak of the English Senhor Crowberry. This is his son. Go and kill a chicken—the fat brown one."
When José had departed on his murderous errand, Antonio brought their guest a large glass of green wine. Young Crowberry drank it with a wry face; but he admitted that it acted like a charm in quenching his thirst. They walked out into the vineyards.