“Sit down and have a cigar,” offered Wallingford, producing a companion to the one he was then enjoying.
Bob took that cigar and smelled it; he measured its length, its weight, and felt its firmness.
“It ain’t got any band on it, but I reckon that’s a straight ten-center,” he opined.
“I’ll buy all you can get me of that brand for a quarter apiece,” offered Wallingford.
“So?” said Bob, looking at it doubtfully. “I reckon I’d better save this for Sunday.”
“No, smoke it now. I’ll give you another one for Sunday,” promised Wallingford, and he lit a match, whereupon Bob, biting the end off the cigar with his strong, white teeth, moistened it all over with his tongue to keep the curl of the wrapper down.
With vast gratification he sat down to enjoy that awe-inspiring cigar, and, by way of being entertaining, uttered comment upon the passing parade—frank, ingeniously told bits of personal history which would have been startling to one who had imbibed the conventional idea that all country folk are without guile. Wallingford was not so much shocked by these revelations, however, as he might have been, for he had himself been raised in a country town, though one not so small as Blakeville.
It was while Bob was in the midst of this more or less profane history that Molly and Fannie Bubble came out of the gate.
“Come here, Molly,” invited Bob; “I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. He’s going to stop here quite a long time. Mr. Wallingford—Molly; Miss Bubble—Mr. Wallingford. Come on; let’s all take a walk,” and confidently taking Molly’s arm he started up the crossing, leaving Miss Bubble to Wallingford.