"Connoisseurs--epicures--tell me a cigar should never be lit twice.

But with tobacco of this quality--the last of the box, alas! All its blooming companions--and, between you and me, smuggled." He winked knowingly.
Just then a hooter from the Great Brewery announced five o'clock.
Sam groaned.

He had engaged himself to the schoolmaster for an hour's private tuition before the Evening Class opened, and Mr.Mortimer's fascinating talk had destroyed his last chance of keeping that engagement.

Even if he dropped work straight away, it would take him a good three-quarters of an hour to clean himself and don his best suit.
He was explaining this to Mr.and Mrs.Mortimer when, his eyes resting on the empty shafts of the wagon, a happy thought occurred to him.
"O' course," he began, "-- but there, I don't like to suggest it, sir." "Say on, my friend." "Well--I was thinkin' that you, may be, bein' accustomed to hosses--" "My father," put in Mr.Mortimer, "rode to hounds habitually.

A _beau ideal_, if I may say so, of the Old English squire.