“To be sure I can,” said Geoffrey. “Try one of mine.”
“It’s strong. Mind it don’t make you sick, boy,” said the old fellow grimly, as Geoffrey took the black cheroot, and then opened his own case—an effeminate silk-worked affair—which he handed to his companion.
The old man turned it about with the yellow corners of his lips curled down in disgust.
“Girl work that for you?” he said, with quite a snarl.
“No! Mother,” said Geoffrey, abruptly.
“Ho!” said the old gentleman, picking and turning over one cigar after another, and then replacing it. “There, take your case, boy; I can’t smoke your town-made trash.”
“Town-made trash, eh?” said Geoffrey, laughing. “Why, they’re as good as your Trichinopolies.”
“Rubbish!” said the old fellow.
“Real Havanas, given me by old Sir Harry. Dunton.”
“Not Harry Dunton, Governor of Ginjaica?”