waxed pipe stem, but only for him
perhaps to press one side of his nose with the pipe, and send the rest
out of the left nostril, saving perhaps a little to drive from the
right. The result of practice, for the old man had smoked a great deal.

"Collision?" said Abram Marion, ex-purser and pensioner of the British
navy.

"No," said Mrs Ruth Marion, his little thin acid wife. "Overboard
again, and he's dripping all over the place. It isn't long since he had
those clothes."

"Six months," said the old purser, sending a couple of jets of tobacco
smoke from his nostrils at once.

"Yes; and what with his growing so horribly, and the common stuff they
sell for cloth now, shrinking so shamefully, he's always wanting
clothes."

"Oh, these will last a long time yet, aunt!" said Will.

"No, they will not last a long time yet, Will!" cried the little lady,
with her face all trouble wrinkles.

"Will," said the old man, stopping to say _pup, pup, pup, pup, pup,
pup_, as he emitted half a dozen tiny puffs of smoke, waving his pipe
stem the while; "mind what your aunt says and you'll never repent."

"But he don't mind a word I say," cried the little woman, wringing her
hands. "Wringing wet! just look at him!"

"Been fishing, my lass; and they brought home a fair haul," said the
purser, throwing back his head, and shooting smoke at a fly on the
ceiling.

"What's the use of his bringing home fair hauls if he destroys his
clothes as he does; and the holes he makes in his stockings are
shameful."

"Can't help getting wet at sea," said the ex-purser, solemnly spreading
a good mouthful of smoke in a semicircle. "Water's wet, specially
salt-water. Here, you, sir! how dare you make holes in your stockings
for your aunt to mend? I don't believe your father ever dared to do
such a thing in his life."

"It don't matter, Abram," said the old lady in a lachrymose whine; "it's
my fate to toil, and I'm not long for this world, so it don't matter.
It was my fate to be a toiler; and those clothes of his will be too
small for him to wear when they're dry. I don't know what I'm to do."

"Stretch 'em," said the old gentleman, sending a cloud into his
waistcoat.

"But they won't stretch," cried the old lady peevishly.

"Put 'em away and save 'em," said the old man. "I may adopt another
nevvy--smaller size,"--and here there was a veil spread over his face by
his projecting his lower lip and sending the smoke up into his eyes.