“You’ll break your teeth one of these days,” said the old fellow, taking off his hat, placing it on his stick, and standing it in a corner. Then, going in a slow, bent way to the well waxed and polished Windsor chair, he gave the chintz cushion a punch, took a long clay pipe off the chimney-piece, made it chirrup, reached an old leaden tobacco-box from the same place, set it up on the table, and sat down.
“My teeth are used to it,” said Mrs Shingle, smiling pleasantly, as if she were quite accustomed to the old fellow’s proceedings.
“Hey?”
“I say my teeth are used to it,” repeated Mrs Shingle.
“Oh!—Don’t shout.—I say, this tobacco’s as dry as a chip,” he continued, filling his pipe.
Mrs Shingle sighed.
“Dick’s been going it awfully,” grumbled the old fellow; “there was nearly half an ounce here last night.”
Mrs Shingle rose, took the matches from the chimney-piece, struck a light, and held it to the bowl of the pipe; the visitor puffed the tobacco into a state of incandescence, and then subsided into his chair with a satisfied grunt, and sat staring straight before him, while Mrs Shingle sighed and went on with her stitching.
“I met those two,” said the old fellow, after a pause.
Mrs Shingle looked up sharply.