‘Very sorry, sir; but you must put out your cigar.’
‘Can’t I go into the next carriage?’
‘Two ladies in there, sir—old ladies!’
‘Have you any empty compartment?’
‘We’re just off, sir,’ says the guard, slamming to the door, and the next minute we are spinning on our way to Peterborough.
Shall I put out my cigar? I have been alluded to as a ‘person.’ I have been addressed in a dictatorial manner, which has the very reverse of a soothing influence on me. I feel ruffled and obstinate. Had I been asked politely, my Havana had been out of the window in a twinkling. Shall I put it out or infringe by-law No. 7, and be fined forty shillings? I will finish my cigar, and abide by the consequences.
My companion is evidently as unaccustomed to opposition as I am to dictation, and for a few minutes he stares at me dumbfounded, then he lets fly his own version of King James’s Counterblast against Tobacco. On my part I preserve an obstinate silence. My companion pulls up the window on his side; I put up that on mine, which produces a violent fit of coughing on his part, when down go both windows in a hurry.
We have arrived at Peterborough, and the guard is again called. I have almost finished my cigar, and I throw the end away. My companion cannot let the matter rest, however, and when we are started again, he reads me another lecture, couched in such unacceptable terms that for reply I light another cigar.
‘Sir, here is my card; and I insist upon knowing your name and address.’
I take his card, open my card-case, put his card in, and return the case to my pocket without giving him my card in exchange. I finish my cigar amidst a volley of threats of getting my name and address by force.