e conversation was
resumed.

"You told us, my good fellow, that you met our comrade Rodolph in the
house where Bras Rouge lives?" inquired Thomas Seyton, as he hob and
nobbed with the Chourineur.

"Yes, my good fellow," replied he, as he emptied his glass at a gulp.

"What a singular name is Bras Rouge! What is this Bras Rouge?"

"_Il pastique la maltouze_" (smuggles), said the Chourineur, in a
careless tone, and then added, "This is jolly good wine, Mother
Ponisse!"

"If you think so, do not spare it, my fine fellow," said Seyton, and he
filled the Chourineur's glass as he spoke.

"Your health, mate," said he, "and the health of your little friend,
who--but mum. 'If my aunt was a man, she'd be my uncle,' as the proverb
says. Ah! you sly rogue, I'm up to you!"

Sarah coloured slightly as her brother continued, "I did not quite
understand what you meant about Bras Rouge. Rodolph came from his house,
no doubt?"

"I told you that Bras Rouge _pastique la maltouze_."

Thomas regarded the Chourineur with an air of surprise.

"What do you mean by _pastique la mal_--What do you call it?"

"_Pastiquer la maltouze._ He smuggles, I suppose you would call it; but
it seems you can't 'patter flash?'"

"My fine fellow, I don't understand one word you say."

"I see you can't talk slang like M. Rodolph."

"Slang?" said Thomas Seyton, looking at Sarah with an astonished air.

"Ah! you are yokels; but comrade Rodolph is an out-and-out pal, he is.
Though only a fan-painter, yet he is as 'downy' in 'flash' as I am
myself. Well, since you can't speak this very fine language, I tell you,
in plain French, that Bras Rouge is a smuggler, and, besides that, has a
small tavern in the Champs Elysees. I say, without breaking faith, that
he is a smuggler, for he makes no secret of it, but owns it under the
very nose of the custom-house officers. Find him out, though, if you
can; Bras Rouge is a deep one."

"What could Rodolph want at the house of this man?" asked Sarah.

"Really, sir, or madam, which you please, I know nothing about anything,
as true as I drink this glass of wine. I was chaffing to-night with the
Goualeuse, who thought I was going to beat her, and she ran up Bras
Rouge's alley, and I after her; it was as dark as the devil. Instead of
hitting Goualeuse, however, I stumbled on Master Rodolph, who soon gave
me better than I sent. Such thumps! and especially those infernal
thwacks with his fist at last. My eyes! how