“By no means,” said I. “I like it⁠—in somebody else’s pipe.”

“What, not in your own, eh?” Mr. Omer returned, laughing. “All the better, sir. Bad habit for a young man. Take a seat. I smoke, myself, for the asthma.”

Mr. Omer had made room for me, and placed a chair. He now sat down again very much out of breath, gasping at his pipe as if it contained a supply of that necessary, without which he must perish.

“I am sorry to have heard bad news of Mr. Barkis,” said I.

Mr. Omer looked at me, with a steady countenance, and shook his head.

“Do you know how he is tonight?” I asked.