"Fall to, old chap," said he. "Stolen goods make the fattest dishes, you know."
Nice company, eh?
"Thank you, I can't eat it; it is too much peppered," I said.
"All right; so much the more for us."
The wine, naturally, was sent round in the flask; not a glass was to be seen. Józsi Fekete, as is the way with boors, first drank from the flask himself, and then, having wiped the mouth of it with his wide shirt-sleeve, presented it to the Countess. And, bless my heart, she took it, and drank out of it. An amazing woman, really!
Then the flippant rogue turned to me, and offered me a drink.
"Come, drink away, old chap," he said (why always harp upon my grey hairs), "for of course you are going to make a night of it."
"Thank you, I cannot drink. I'm a teetotaler," I said.
I was now thoroughly convinced that they were going to drink themselves mad drunk preparatory to knocking our brains out. And, indeed, they did drink a cask of wine between the five of them, yet when they rose from the table not one of them so much as staggered.
While they were treating the gipsies, the robber-chief approached me again.