“Shall I bring cigars, sir?”
“Lord, no! The last I had here nearly poisoned me. Get the cocktails and be lively about it.”
The waiter departed. The young gentleman drew a gold cigarette case from his pocket.
“Here you are,” he drawled, proffering the case. “Cigars!” with a contemptuous laugh. “They buy their cigars by the yard, at the rope walk. Fact, Monty; take my word for it.”
“Monty” laughed. “That's pretty rough, Tacks,” he declared.
“Oh, but it's so. You can actually smell the hemp. Eh? By gad, you can smell it now, can't you?”
Captain Dan was relighting the stump of his “ten-center” which had gone out. He had scarcely noticed the newcomers; his thoughts were far away from Scarford and the Palatine Hotel. Now, however, he suddenly became aware that his tablemates were regarding him and the cigar with apparent amusement. He smiled good naturedly.
“Been runnin' her too low,” he observed. “Have to get up steam if I want to be in at the finish.”
This nautical remark was received with blank stares. “Monty” turned his shoulder toward the speaker. “Tacks” did not even turn; he continued to stare. The arrival of the cocktails was the next happening of importance.
“I say, Tacks,” observed Monty, leaning back in his chair and sipping his Martini, “how are you getting on? Made up your mind what to do?”