"Because it ain't likely there's another thimbleful in all America."
"What're givin' us? Do you mean to say that I haven't got plenty of French brandy in my establishment?"
"I mean to say just this: There is more brandy used in the one city of Paris alone than is manufactured in all France. How, then, is it likely that much of the pure stuff can pass our custom-houses."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Barney, "if any of the Simon Pure could get as far as the custom-houses, I'll warrant it wouldn't get any further. Our government officials know too well what's expected of them to let it slip through their fingers."
"Right, shipmate!" exclaimed Rouse, "they'd prefer to let it slip down their insatiable throats."
"Well," exclaimed Old Spicer, suddenly, "pure or impure, I see you've disposed of your brandy at last, landlord, and so now come over and help us out with our rum."
The landlord, drawing his chair after him, joined them at their table. Rouse filled his glass, gave a toast, and was careful to see that the old man drank it off. Then a suspicion that the liquor might have been tampered with was removed.
"What ship do you fellows belong to?" asked the proprietor, while Rouse was refilling his glass.
"No ship at all," was the answer.
"What craft, then?"