“Try one of these,” he said, “you will smoke nothing better in all Europe. I pledge you the word of Israel Zevenboom to that.”
“I can quite believe you,” said Burrell, and then mindful of the business that had brought him there, he added, “if there’s one man in all London who knows a good cigar I suppose you are that one.”
The little man grinned in high appreciation of the compliment.
“Cigars or cigarettes, I tell you, it’s all the same to me,” he said, spreading his hands apart. “There is no tobacco grown, or upon the market, that I can not put a name to.”
“And you are familiar with all the best makers, I suppose?”
The other again spread his hands apart as if such a question was not of sufficient importance to require an answer.
“I know them all,” he continued pompously. “And they all know me. Morris and Zevenboom is a firm whose name is famous with them all.”
A pause of upward of half a minute followed this remark, during which Burrell lit his cigar.
“And now what can I do for you, my friend?” the other inquired. “I shall be most happy to oblige you as far as lies in my power. You were very good to me in de matter of——”