The tone of the questioner
expressed nothing--he was too well trained for that--but every item of
information was tabulated and appraised.
The tall mahogany-cased clock struck three, then four. The lawyer
finished his cigar and lit another. He offered a fresh one to his guest,
but the offer was declined.
"No, thank you," observed the captain. "I've been yarnin' away so
fast that my breath's been too busy to keep this one goin'. There's
consider'ble left yet. This is a better smoke than I'm used to
gettin' at the store down home. I tell Ryder--he's our storekeeper and
postmaster--that he must buy his cigars on the reel and cut 'em off with
the scissors. When the gang of us all got a-goin' mail times, it smells
like a rope-walk burnin' down. Ho! ho! It does, for a fact. Yet I kind
of enjoy one of his five-centers, after all. You can get used to most
anything. Maybe it's the home flavor or the society. P'raps they'd taste
better still if they was made of seaweed. I'll trouble you for a match,
Mr. Sylvester. Two of 'em, if you don't mind."
He whittled one match to a point with his pocket knife, impaled the
cigar stump upon it, and relit with the other.
Meanwhile the room had been filling up. Around each of the big windows
overlooking the Avenue were gathered groups of men, young and old,
smoking, chatting, and gazing idly out.
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