“Does that interfere with your liberty to smoke?” Wilkinson asked.

“Aw, preciselly; zen most I go to ze stebble and tekka ze younga guestes zat smoke not in chombres bouchees, vat you call zat?”

“Literally, it means corked,” replied the dominie; “but I presume you mean, with door and window closed, as it were, hermetically sealed.”

“Preciselly; ve ’ave ze vord in ze Fraynsh langwitch, eremitique, zat ees as a religious oo leeves all alone, vis person zere bot ’imselluf.  I tekka ze guestes zat lofe not ze eremitique life to ze stebble, vare ve smale ze stingy tawbawc of Bawtiste.  M’syae parle Francea, meh peutehtre ne conneh le tawbawc puant, en Anglah stingy, de Bawtiste.  C’n’est paws awgreable, M’syae.  Aw, non, paw de tout, je vous asshere!”

“That is very considerate of you,” remarked the schoolmaster, approvingly.  “I wish all users of the narcotic were as mindful of the comfort and health of their neighbours.  Regard for the feelings of others is perhaps the chief distinguishing mark of a gentleman.”

“Meestare Bulky ees a shentleman, bot he ’ave no sharitay for smokinga men,” replied Pierre, ruefully.

“That’s where the shoe pinches, not your feet, Wilks,” said the lawyer, with a laugh.  “You could touch bottom, like Mr. Bulky, with these gunboats, but on all your privileged classes.  Why should Bulky bulk so large in any place of entertainment as to send everybody else to a stable?  Catch me smoking with that old garlic-perfumed Batiste!  How about the garlic, and peppermint, and musk, and sauer-kraut, and all the other smells.  Any smells about Mr. Bulky, Pierre?”

“Aw yehs; ‘ees feeshing goat smale, aw, eet smale an’ smale of som stoff he call ass-afeetiter, ze feesh liike ze smale, bot I am not a feesh.”

“See that now, Wilks.  This selfish pig of a Bulky, as Monsieur says, has no charity.  He drives clean, wholesome smoke out of the hotel, and stinks the place up with as nasty a chemical mixture as disgusting science ever invented.  He reminds me of a Toronto professor of anatomy who wouldn’t allow the poor squeamish medicals to smoke in the dissecting room, because, he said, one bad smell was better than two.  If I had my way with Bulky I’d smoke him blue in the face, if for nothing but to drown his abominable assafoetida, the pig!”

“Aw, non, M’syae,” interrupted Pierre, to protect the idol of the Maple Inn; “Meestare Bulky ees not a peeg, but assafeetiter is vorse zan a peeg-stye.  N’est ce paw, Angelique?”

“I ’ave no vord to say of M’syae Bulky,” replied Madame, taking up her mending and entering the house.  She was at once recalled to the verandah by a juvenile voice that called “Mrs. Latchness!” The speaker soon appeared in the person of a small boy, about twelve years old, who, hatless, coatless, and shoeless, ran up from the river bank.  “Vat you vant vis me, Tommee?” asked Madame.  “I come from Widder Toner’s—­Ben’s dyin’, she says, and can’t move a stir.  She wants to know if they’s anybody here as knows anything about doctorin’, and, she says, hurry awful quick!” cried the breathless youngster.