"Oh no, sir. They're different. It's a question of standards, really."
"Ah, but what are the standards?"
"Well, you see—we have one—and civilians have another, business people and so on, and then there's the politicians."
"You ought to write a dictionary, Pongo—you snub-nosed old shell-back. No, I ain't scrapping, and if you get up I'll take your chair."
"Whose got a cigarette? No, not one of your stinkers—gimme one of yours, Guns."
The officer addressed politely passed a cigarette across in his fingers, and turning in his chair beckoned to a marine servant who was just returning with an empty tray from the Bridge table.
"A cigarette, please, waiter—and debit it to the account of my honourable friend Mr Maugham, here. I'll stop your cadging, Pongo—if I have to take on the tobacco accounts to do it."
"Lucky there's no shortage of 'baccy, or all the armies would strike."
"Well, that'd be one way to stop the war. You can't fight without it. Wish we had some tobacco shares. Some people must be making a lot."
"Not so much as the food people."