“Englishman?” he inquired.
“That's me,” answered Uncle Ben, with commendable pride, “from the top of my head to me boots. Not that I've anything to say against foreigners.”
“Nor I; but it's pleasant to meet a countryman in a foreign land.” Cornish deliberately brought his chair forward. “Your bottle is empty,” he added; “I'll order another. Friend's a Frenchman, eh?”
“That he is—and doesn't understand his own language either,” answered Uncle Ben, in a voice indicating that that lack of comprehension rather intensified his friend's Frenchness than otherwise.
The proprietor of the Café de l'Europe now came out in answer to Cornish's rap on the iron table, and presently brought a small bottle of brandy.
“Yes,” said Cornish, pouring out the spirit, which his companions drank in its undiluted state from small tumblers—“yes, I'm glad to meet an Englishman. I suppose you are in the works—the Malgamite?”
“I am. And what do you know about malgamite, mister?”
“Well, not much, I am glad to say.”
“There is precious few that knows anything,” said the man, darkly, and his eye for a moment sobered into cunning.
“I have heard that it is a very dangerous trade, and if you want to get out of it I'm connected with an association in London to provide situations for elderly men who are no longer up to their work,” said Cornish, carelessly.