A box of Brett’s Turkish cigarettes was lying temptingly open. He advanced.
“Touch those, and I slay you,” snapped Brett. “Your miserable life is not worth one of them.”
The man jumped as if he had been fired at. The barrister, coiled up like a boa-constrictor, glared at him in mock fury.
“I beg pardon, sir,” he blurted out, “I didn’t know you was in.”
“Evidently. A more expert scoundrel would have stolen them under my very nose. You are a bungler.”
“I really wasn’t goin’ to take any, sir—just put them away, that is all.”
“In that packet,” said Brett, “there are eighty-seven cigarettes. I count them, because each one is an epoch. I don’t count the cigars in the sideboard.”
“I prefer cigars,” grinned the waiter.
“So I see. You have two of the landlord’s best ‘sixpences’ in the left pocket of your waistcoat at this moment.”
“Well, if you ain’t a fair scorcher,” the man gasped.