"John Smith isn't exactly a French name," said Jerry. "Why do you think he is French?"
"Because he called Mr. von Greusen a 'vigneron' and talked about 'hectares' instead of acres, and 'hectolitres' instead of gallons, and he told me how vines were trained in Champagne and Burgundy and Languedoc—all very Frenchy. Mr. von Greusen never talks like that. He was interested in my new grape, but he's afraid it won't go on being like it is now. He says it has about one chance in a hundred. I don't mind betting you sixpence it will be a champagne grape."
"I don't mind betting you sixpence he isn't French if his name is John
Smith," said Jerry. "You might as well call yourself a Scotsman named
Chung Li Chang."
"Oh—names! Names are nothing out here," Hugh said loftily. "We can call ourselves what we please. This is the Land of Liberty. Besides, Papa knows a Scotsman called Devereux, so there you are."
"Faugh!" said Jerry scornfully. "That's nothing! Everyone knows that
Scotland is full of French names."
"I suppose you are trying to say 'sfaw'," said Hugh coldly. "There is nothing to sfaw about. Lots of Chinese people come to Australia and call themselves John Smith if they choose."
"Faugh!" Jerry repeated.
"Sfaw!" said Hugh.
"Faugh—" Jerry began, but Dick interrupted.
"If you two asses are trying to say pshaw you are both wrong. I happened to see it in the dictionary a few days ago and it is pronounced shaw; it's a silly sort of word anyhow. No one uses it in real life. Shut your jaws and stop your shaws and let's go and get a drink."