This very ordinary remark seemed to afford Mrs Whitmarsh unbounded entertainment and for quite a number of seconds she was convulsed with silent amusement at the idea.
“Shut up, mother,” said her dutiful son. “Don’t take any notice of her,” he remarked to his visitors, “she often goes on like that. The fact is,” he added, “we Whitmarshes aren’t popular in these parts. Of course that doesn’t trouble me; I’ve seen too much of things. And, taken as a boiling, the Whitmarshes deserve it.”
“Ah, wait till you touch the coal, my boy, then you’ll see,” put in the old lady, with malicious triumph.
“I reckon we’ll show them then, eh, mother?” he responded bumptiously. “Perhaps you’ve heard of that, Mr——?”
“Carrados—Wynn Carrados. This is my man, Parkinson. I have to be attended because my sight has failed me. Yes, I had heard something about coal. Providence seems to be on your side just now, Mr Whitmarsh. May I offer you a cigarette?”
“Thanks, I don’t mind for once in a way.”
“They’re Turkish; quite innocuous, I believe.”
“Oh, it isn’t that. I can smoke cutty with any man, I reckon, but the paper affects my lips. I make my own and use a sort of paper with an end that doesn’t stick.”
“The paper is certainly a drawback sometimes,” agreed Carrados. “I’ve found that. Might I try one of yours?”
They exchanged cigarettes and Whitmarsh returned to the subject of the tragedy.