And, somehow or other, that cigar required a long and most careful lighting. The smoker got the tip glowing, and then inspected it critically. It was not to his satisfaction, as he drew a few puffs on it, and again he applied the end to the flame.
He sent forth a perfect cloud of smoke this time, and it seemed to veil him as the fog, blowing in from the sea, veils the tumbling billows. Once more there was a look at the end, but the “fussy old duck” was not satisfied, and, again had recourse to the flame.
All this while Colonel Ashley was straining his ears to catch what Jean Forette was saying to the attendant who had drawn the frothing glass of beer for him.
But the men talked in too low a tone, or the colonel had been a bit too late, for all he heard was a murmur of automobile talk. Jean seemed to be telling something about a particularly fast car he had formerly driven.
“The fishing isn't as good as I hoped,” mused the colonel.
Then, as he turned to go out, he heard distinctly:
“Sure I remember you paying for the drink. I can prove that if you want me to. Are they tryin' to double-cross you?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Well, you leave it to me, see? I'll square you all right.”
“Thanks,” murmured Jean, and then he, too, turned aside.