e trickle of their own syrup, and a tablespoonful of stewed rhubarb
where had been one of those yellow basins nearly full--what can the
most resourceful kitcheneer do with these oddments? This atrocious
practice cannot be too bitterly condemned.

But we are what we are, and Roger was even more so. The Anatomy of
Melancholy always made him hungry, and he dipped discreetly into
various vessels of refreshment, sharing a few scraps with Bock whose
pleading brown eye at these secret suppers always showed a comical
realization of their shameful and furtive nature. Bock knew very well
that Roger had no business at the ice-box, for the larger outlines of
social law upon which every home depends are clearly understood by
dogs. But Bock's face always showed his tremulous eagerness to
participate in the sin, and rather than have him stand by as a silent
and damning critic, Roger used to give him most of the cold potato.
The censure of a dog is something no man can stand. But I rove, as
Burton would say.

After the ice-box, the cellar. Like all true householders, Roger was
fond of his cellar. It was something mouldy of smell, but it harboured
a well-stocked little bin of liquors, and the florid glow of the
furnace mouth upon the concrete floor was a great pleasure to the
bookseller. He loved to peer in at the dancing flicker of small blue
flames that played above the ruddy mound of coals in the
firebox--tenuous, airy little flames that were as blue as violets and
hovered up and down in the ascending gases. Before blackening the fire
with a stoking of coal he pulled up a wooden Bushmills box, turned off
the electric bulb overhead, and sat there for a final pipe, watching
the rosy shine of the grate. The tobacco smoke, drawn inward by the
hot inhaling fire, seemed dry and gray in the golden brightness. Bock,
who had pattered down the steps after him, nosed and snooped about the
cellar. Roger was thinking of Burton's words on the immortal weed--

Tobacco, divine, rare, superexcellent tobacco, which goes far beyond
all the panaceas, potable gold, and philosopher's stones, a sovereign
remedy to all diseases. . . . a virtuous herb, if it be well qualified,
opportunely taken, and medicinally used; but as it is commonly abused
by most men, which take it as tinkers do ale, 'tis a plague, a
mischief, a violent purger of goods, lands, health, hellish, devilish,
and damned tobacco, the ruin and overthrow of body and soul----