“Any shootin’ at the North?” he asked.
Hammersley’s monocle dropped and the eyes of the two men met.
“Yes. I’m shootin’ the day after tomorrow,” said Hammersley quietly. Byfield looked away and another long moment of silence followed. Then the Honorable Cyril after a puff or two took the long amber holder from his mouth, removed the cigarette and smudged the ash upon the receiver.
“Bally heady cigarettes, these of Algy’s. Don’t happen to have any ’baccy and papers about you, do you, Byfield?”
“Well, rather,” replied the captain. And he pushed a pouch and a package of cigarette papers along the tablecloth. “It’s a mix of my own. I hope you’ll like it.”
Hammersley opened the bag and sniffed at its contents.
“Good stuff, that. Virginia, Perique and a bit of Turkish. What?”
Byfield nodded and watched Hammersley as he poured out the tobacco, rolled the paper and lighted it at the candelabra, inhaling luxuriously.
“Thanks,” he sighed. “Jolly good of you,” and he pushed the pouch back to Byfield along the table.