Oh, Lord!"
Mr. Waddington rose slowly to his feet. He lit a cigarette, sniffed
it, and looked at it disparagingly. It was very fine Turkish tobacco
and one of Burton's extravagances.
"I am not sure, after all," he declared, "that there isn't more flavor
in a British cigar."
Burton shuddered
"You had better take a bean at once," he groaned. "Those cigarettes are
made from the finest tobacco imported."
Mr. Waddington felt in his waistcoat pocket with trembling fingers,
slowly produced a little silver box, took out a bean and crunched it
between his teeth. An expression of immense relief at once spread over
his features. He sniffed at his cigarette with an air of keen
appreciation, and deliberately handed over to Burton his share of the
remaining beans.
"I am myself again," he declared firmly. "I can feel the change
already."
Burton eyed him anxiously.
"Cigarette taste all right now?"
"Delicious!" Mr. Waddington replied. "Most exquisite tobacco! Makes
me shiver inside to think how I could ever have smoked that other filthy
rubbish."
"No idea of calling in at the Golden Lion on your way back, eh?" Burton
persisted.
Mr. Waddington's expression was full of reproach. "The very thought of
that place, with its smell of stale beer and those awful creatures
behind the bar, makes me shiver," he confessed.
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