"Yes, my good fellow," replied he, as he emptied his glass at a gulp.
"What a singular name is Bras Rouge! What is this Bras Rouge?"
"Il pastique la maltouze" (smuggles), said the Chourineur, in a careless tone, and then added, "This is jolly good wine, Mother Ponisse!"
"If you think so, do not spare it, my fine fellow," said Seyton, and he filled the Chourineur's glass as he spoke.
"Your health, mate," said he, "and the health of your little friend, who—but mum. 'If my aunt was a man, she'd be my uncle,' as the proverb says. Ah! you sly rogue, I'm up to you!"
Sarah coloured slightly as her brother continued, "I did not quite understand what you meant about Bras Rouge. Rodolph came from his house, no doubt?"
"I told you that Bras Rouge pastique la maltouze."
Thomas regarded the Chourineur with an air of surprise.
"What do you mean by pastique la mal——What do you call it?"
"Pastiquer la maltouze. He smuggles, I suppose you would call it; but it seems you can't 'patter flash?'"