"No, I would rather smoke my pipe."
"Where is your pipe?"
"In my vest."
"Good; and your tobacco?"
"In my pantaloons pocket."
"Fill his pipe, Despois. This man is a brave fellow—I like to see such. We will take off your arm in two times and three motions."
"Is there no way of preserving it, Monsieur Lorquin—for my poor children's sake? It is their only support."
"No, the bone is fractured and will not reunite. Light his pipe, Despois. Now, Nicholas, my man, smoke, smoke."
The poor fellow seemed after all to have little wish to do so.
"Are you ready?" asked the doctor.