“Anybody’d know ye after that blow out,” she says with a grin. “Ye’re the same old sixpence, Franzy; let’s have a look at ye.”
She lays a hand upon his arm, and he turns back half reluctantly.
“Wot’s struck ye?” he asks, resentfully. “Maybe it’s occurred to ye that I may have got a bit o’ money about me. If that’s yer lay, ye’re left. An’ I may as well tell ye that if ye can’t help a fellow to a little of the necessary, there’s no good o’ my stoppin’ here.”
And shaking her hand from his arm, this affectionate Prodigal strides past her, and peers eagerly into the broken glass upon the table.
“Empty, of course,” he mutters; “I might a-known it.”
Then his eyes fix upon the tin cup containing Mamma’s choice brew. Striding forward, he seizes it, smells its contents, and with a grunt of satisfaction raises it to his lips.
In an instant Mamma Francoise springs forward, and seizing the cup with both hands, holds it away from his mouth.
“Stop, Franz! you mustn’t drink that.”
A string of oaths rolls from his lips, and he wrests the cup from her hand, spilling half its contents in the act.
“Stop, Franzy!” calls Papa, excitedly; “that stuff won’t be good for you.”