They went out stupefied.
"What's the idea now?" inquired Mr. Figgs.
"Oh. They charge a franc apiece for each candle, and that is a swindle which we will not submit to."
"And will I have to be humbugged again?"
"Certainly."
"Botheration."
"My dear Sir, the swindle of bougies is the curse of the Continental traveller. None of us are particularly prudent, but we are all on the watch against small swindles, and of them all this is the most frequent and most insidious, the most constantly and ever recurrent. Beware, my dear President, of bougies--that's what we call candles."
Mr. Figgs said nothing, but leaned against the wall for a moment in a meditative mood, as if debating what he should do next.
He happened to be in the Doctor's room. He had already noticed that this gentleman had no perceptible baggage, and didn't understand it.
But now he saw it all.