Half an hour later he was once more at the tollhouse, dismounting from the landlord’s cob, which animal he apostrophized as the greatest slug he had ever crossed in his life. The hen-house, he considered, would be a fitting stable; and allowing John to lead the cob away, he entered the tollhouse, and was discovered by his friend, a few minutes later, inspecting the premises with interest not unmixed with consternation.
“How do you like my quarters?” John asked cheerfully.
“Well, your bedroom ain’t so bad, but where do you sit?” enquired Mr. Babbacombe.
“Here, in the kitchen, of course!”
“No, really, Jack!”
“Lord, you’ve grown very nice, haven’t you? Were you never billeted in a Portuguese cottage, with no glass in the windows, and a fire burning in the middle of the floor, so that you were blinded by the smoke?”
“I was,” acknowledged Mr. Babbacombe. “That’s why I sold out!”
“Don’t you try to play off the airs of an exquisite on me, my buck! Sit down! By the way, why the devil didn’t you pack up my cigarillos with the rest of my gear? I’ve none left!”
With a sigh, Mr. Babbacombe produced a case from his pocket, and held it out. “Because you didn’t tell me to, of course. Here you are!”
“Bless you!” said the Captain. “Well, now we’ll blow a cloud together, Bab, and I’ll tell you what I’m doing here!”