“'Tis n't bastely at all. I took it out of your own bag this morning.”
“Not out of the antelope's skin?” asked O'Shea, eagerly.
“Yes; out of the hairy bag with the little hoofs on it.”
A loud burst of laughter was O'Shea's reply, and for several seconds he could not control his mirth.
“Do you know what you're smoking! It's Russian camomile!”
“Maybe it is.”
“I got it to make a bitter mixture.”
“It's bitther, sure enough, but it has a notion of tobacco too.”
O'Shea again laughed out, and longer than before.
“It's just a chance that you were n't poisoned,” said he, at last. “Here—here's a cigar for you, and a real Cuban, too, one that young Heathcote never fancied would grace your lips.”