"Then buy one," said Turner. "I always wear one—in a pocket at the back, where neither I nor any one else can get at it. Sorry you could not come to luncheon," he continued. "I wanted to have a long talk with you."
He settled himself in the large arm-chair, which he completely filled. I like a man to be bulky in his advancing years.
"WAITER, TAKE THIS GENTLEMAN'S ORDER. YOU YOUNG FELLOWS CANNOT SMOKE WITHOUT DRINKING, NOWADAYS—HORRID BAD HABIT. WAITER, BRING ME THE SAME."
"Take that chair," he said, "and this cigar. I suppose you want something to drink. Waiter, take this gentleman's order. You young fellows cannot smoke without drinking, nowadays—horrid bad habit. Waiter, bring me the same."
When we were alone, John Turner sat smoking and looking at me with beady, reflective eyes.
"You know, Dick," he said at length, "I have got you down in my will."
"Thanks—but you will last my time."
"Then it is no good, you think?" he inquired, with a chuckle.
"Not much."