“What can I do for you, Jenkinson?” Richards rested the tips of his fingers on the counter and beamed across. “Tobacco or cigarettes?”
“Last time me and you held conversation together,” remarked the lad—“I’m speaking now of a matter of six weeks ago, or it might be a couple of months—you distinctly told me, as far as I remember, that smoking at my time of life was playing the deuce with my health.”
“Everything’s good if taken in moderation.”
“And, furthermore, you said that if you caught me with a fag again, you’d report me to headquarters.”
“My humour is what they call dry,” urged Richards. “You have to go below the surface to see what I’m really driving at. How are they managing at the old place? What’s the new inspector like? Some of you will find a difference, if I’m not greatly mistaken.”
“We have!”
“Ah!”
“General opinion,” said the lad, with marked emphasis, “seems to be that this one is a gentleman.”
Mr. Richards eyed him across the counter; the other, almost quailing, asked whether the establishment included matches amongst its stores. A box being produced, he inquired how many it contained. Mr. Richards said he did not know. The lad, opening the box, remarked that it appeared to have been tampered with, and expressed a desire not to be swindled. The proprietor imperatively ordered him to go out of the shop, and went back to his meal. This had become cold; the circumstance that he himself was considerably heated did not compensate.
“There’s another!” mentioned Harriet.