“My nose informed me. My eyes affirm. Yours?”
“I am afraid so.”
“My simple rule. In the vegetable garden you may smoke; here you may not. Is it so hard to observe?”
“I quite forgot myself.”
Mr. Marrapit cried: “Adjust that impression. You forgot me. Consistently you forget me. My desires, my interests are nothing to you.”
“It's a rotten thing to make a fuss about.”
“That is why I make a fuss. It is a rotten thing. A disgusting and a noisome thing. Bury it.”
Into a bed of soft mould George struck a sullen heel; kicked the tobacco towards the pit. Mr. Marrapit chanted over the obsequies: “I provide you with the enormous expanse of my vegetable garden in which to smoke. Yet upon my little acre you intrude. I am Naboth.”
Ahab straightened his back; sighed heavily. Naboth started against the prick of a sudden recollection:
“I had forgotten. Your examination?”