“If you 'll allow me, Captain Bramleigh,” said the official, who was now touched to the quick on that sore point, a question of his department—“if you'll allow me, I think I can soon settle this matter.”
“But I will not allow you, sir,” said Jack, his sense of fairness already outraged by the whole procedure. “He has as good a right to his place as I have to mine. Many thanks for your trouble. Good-bye.” And so saying he stepped in.
The foreigner still lingered in earnest converse with his friend, and only mounted the steps as the train began to move. “A bientôt, cher Philippe,” he cried, as the door was slammed, and the next instant they were gone.
The little incident which had preceded their departure had certainly not conduced to any amicable disposition between them, and each, after a sidelong glance at the other, ensconced himself more completely within his wrappings, and gave himself up to either silence or sleep.
Some thirty miles of the journey had rolled over, and it was now day,—dark and dreary indeed,—when Jack awoke and found the carriage pretty thick with smoke. There is a sort of freemasonry in the men of tobacco which never fails them, and they have a kind of instinctive guess of a stranger from the mere character of his weed. On the present occasion Jack recognized a most exquisite Havanna odor, and turned furtively to see the smoker.
“I ought to have asked,” said the stranger, “if this was disagreeable to you; but you were asleep, and I did not like to disturb you.”
“Not in the least; I am a smoker too,” said Jack, as he drew forth his case and proceeded to strike a light.
“Might I offer you one of mine?—they are not bad,” said the other, proffering his case.
“Thanks,” said Jack; “my tastes are too vulgar for Cubans. Birdseye, dashed with strong Cavendish, is what I like.”
“I have tried that too, as I have tried everything English, but the same sort of half success follows me through all.”