waiting for a sign that either of his guests indulged in the weed. As
he also filled his pipe, he remarked to his fellow smoker that "Meestare
Bulky vare good shentleman, and rest 'ere longatimes, bot ze perfume of
ze 'bonne pipe,' same of ze cigawr makea 'im seek."

"Does that interfere with your liberty to smoke?" Wilkinson asked.

"Aw, preciselly; zen most I go to ze stebble and tekka ze younga guestes
zat smoke not in chombres _bouchees_, vat you call zat?"

"Literally, it means corked," replied the dominie; "but I presume you
mean, with door and window closed, as it were, hermetically sealed."

"Preciselly; ve 'ave ze vord in ze Fraynsh langwitch, _eremitique_, zat
ees as a religious oo leeves all alone, vis person zere bot 'imselluf. I
tekka ze guestes zat lofe not ze eremitique life to ze stebble, vare ve
smale ze stingy tawbawc of Bawtiste. M'syae parle Francea, meh peutehtre
ne conneh le tawbawc puant, en Anglah _stingy_, de Bawtiste. C'n'est
paws awgreable, M'syae. Aw, non, paw de tout, je vous asshere!"

"That is very considerate of you," remarked the schoolmaster,
approvingly. "I wish all users of the narcotic were as mindful of the
comfort and health of their neighbours. Regard for the feelings of
others is perhaps the chief distinguishing mark of a gentleman."

"Meestare Bulky ees a shentleman, bot he 'ave no sharitay for smokinga
men," replied Pierre, ruefully.

"That's where the shoe pinches, not your feet, Wilks," said the lawyer,
with a laugh. "You could touch bottom, like Mr. Bulky, with these
gunboats, but on all your privileged classes. Why should Bulky bulk so
large in any place of entertainment as to send everybody else to a
stable? Catch me smoking with that old garlic-perfumed Batiste! How
about the garlic, and peppermint, and musk, and sauer-kraut, and all the
other smells. Any smells about Mr. Bulky, Pierre?"

"Aw yehs; 'ees feeshing goat smale, aw, eet smale an' smale of som stoff
he call ass-afeetiter, ze feesh liike ze smale, bot I am not a feesh."

"See that now, Wilks. This selfish pig of a Bulky, as Monsieur says, has
no charity. He drives clean, wholesome smoke out of the hotel, and
stinks the place up with as nasty a chemical mixture as disgusting
science ever invented. He reminds me of a Toronto professor of anatomy
who wouldn't allow the poor squeamish medicals to smoke in the
dissecting room, because, he said, one bad smell was better than two. If
I had my way with Bulky I