“Right you are, sir,” said Mr Slam; “why, even when I was a lad a fight or a bit of cocking could be brought off without much trouble, but nowadays the beaks and perlice are that prying and interfering there’s no chance hardly. And as for them times Mr Perry was speaking of, why, I’ve heard tell that the princes and all the nobs used to go to see a prize-fight in a big building all comfortable, just as they goes now to a theayter. And every parish had to find a bull or a bear to be bated every Sunday. Ah! them was the good old times, them was.”
Edwards did not find his cigar very nice. The smoke got down his throat and made him cough till his eyes watered, and the taste was not so pleasant as the smell. However, Saurin seemed to like it, so there must be some pleasure about it if he only persevered.
He laboured under a delusion here, for Saurin would rather not have smoked, as a matter of fact, though he had a great object in view, the colouring of his pipe, which supported him. His real motive in this, as in all other matters, was vanity. Other boys would admire him for smoking like a full-grown man, and so he smoked. He would never have done it alone, without anyone to see him, being too fond of himself to persevere in anything he did not like out of whim, or for the sake of some possible future gratification, of the reality of which he was not very well assured.
“Did you ever play at quoits, Edwards?” asked Saurin presently.
“Yes, I have played at home; we have some.”
“Suppose we have a game, then. Why, hulloa, how pale you look! don’t smoke any more of that cigar.”
“I do fee—feel a little queer,” said Edwards, who certainly did not exaggerate his sensations. A cold sweat burst out on his forehead, his hands were moist and clammy, and though it was a warm evening he shivered from head to foot, while he had a violent pain in his stomach which prevented his standing upright.
“Come, man alive, don’t give way. We must be getting back soon,” said Saurin, who was rather dismayed at the idea of taking his friend to his tutor’s in that condition, and the consequent risk of drawing suspicion on himself. “Would not a drop of brandy be a good thing, Slam?”
“Well, no, not in this here case,” said Slam. “The missus shall mix him a little mustard and warm water; that’s what he wants.”
“You are sure it’s only the cigar,” groaned Edwards. “I am not poisoned or anything?”