"'Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley,' hem--yes, Hal Peacock may be witty,
but he is no rogue."

"This was not exactly my meaning," said the boy, dryly.

"'A fico for your meaning,' as the Swan says.--Hallo, you sir! Bully
Host, clear the table--fresh tumblers--hot water--sugar--lemon--and--The
bottle's out! Smoke, sir?" and Mr. Peacock offered me a cigar.

Upon my refusal, he carefully twirled round a very uninviting specimen
of some fabulous havanna, moistened it all over, as a boa-constrictor
may do the ox he prepares for deglutition, bit off one end, and lighting
the other from a little machine for that purpose which he drew from his
pocket, he was soon absorbed in a vigorous effort (which the damp
inherent in the weed long resisted) to poison the surrounding
atmosphere. Therewith the young gentleman, either from emulation or in
self-defence, extracted from his own pouch a cigar-case of notable
elegance,--being of velvet, embroidered apparently by some fair hand,
for "From Juliet" was very legibly worked thereon,--selected a cigar of
better appearance than that in favor with his comrade, and seemed quite
as familiar with the tobacco as he had been with the brandy.

"Fast, sir, fast lad that," quoth Mr. Peacock, in the short gasps which
his resolute struggle with his uninviting victim alone permitted;
"nothing but [puff, puff] your true [suck, suck] syl--syl--sylva--does
for him. Out, by the Lord! the jaws of darkness have devoured it up;'"
and again Mr. Peacock applied to his phosphoric machine. This time
patience and perseverance succeeded, and the heart of the cigar
responded by a dull red spark (leaving the sides wholly untouched) to
the indefatigable ardor of its wooer.