“Then I gave it best for a time and smoked cigars. They were the safest and most satisfactory under the circumstances, but they cost me two shillings a week, and I couldn’t stand it, so I started a pipe again and then mother gave in at last. God bless her, and God forgive me, and us all—we deserve it. She’s been at rest these seventeen long years.”
Mitchell reflected.
“And what did your old man do when he found out that you were smoking?” I asked.
“The old man?”
He reflected.
“Well, he seemed to brighten up at first. You see, he was sort of pensioned off by mother and she kept him pretty well inside his income.... Well, he seemed to sort of brighten up—liven up—when he found out that I was smoking.”
“Did he? So did my old man, and he livened me up, too. But what did your old man do—what did he say?”
“Well,” said Mitchell, very slowly, “about the first thing he did was to ask me for a fill.”
He reflected.
“Ah! many a solemn, thoughtful old smoke we had together on the quiet—the old man and me.”
He reflected.
“Is your old man dead, Mitchell?” I asked softly. “Long ago—these twelve years,” said Mitchell.