“A little liquor!” inquired the host, leaning toward the cupboard.
“Not any, thanks,” returned Hallibut. “Who’s smoking that rotten Canada-Green tobacco?” he demanded sharply. “ ’Tain’t you, is it?” as Watson turned quickly.
Watson shook his head and glanced at Smythe.
“Man by the name of Jamison was in here just before you came,” explained Smythe. “He smoked Canada-Green.”
“Funny,” murmured Hallibut, “it seems to be getting stronger.”
Smythe stamped gently upon the floor.
“What are you dancing about?” asked the Colonel, “isn’t it strictly against your religious code?”
“A touch of chilblain, my dear Colonel——‘ghost’s itch,’ my sainted mother used to call it.”
“Humph! it must be a ghost smoking that Canada-twist,” laughed Hallibut.
“If I thought it was,” declared Smythe, “I would bid him cease. I would,” he cried, raising his voice, “I would command him in this way: ‘Stop smoking immediately!’ ” Mr. Smythe enforced his command by another thump on the trap-door.