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Updated: May 22, 2025
It was an old cherry-briar; systematically smoked by Father in spite of all wiles and temptations to Woodbines and gaspers; an old companion possibly connected with various romantic or diverting events in Father's life. It is perhaps a relic as well as a trinket.
"I want a cigarette. They're not gaspers, are they?" "They are not," he said, holding out his case. "I am quite ready for the second question." She looked at him thoughtfully through a cloud of smoke. "Somehow I don't think I will proceed along the regular lines," she remarked at length. "Your standard seems higher." "Higher than whose?" Vane asked. "Than most of the others."
That cap travels with him like his papers. The bluejacket has many important things which he conceals in it, and the most important of all is his package of "gaspers," as he terms his particular brand of cigarettes. The cap is placed firmly on his head, and occasionally a flannelled arm protruded from the cot.
The apologist in search of a solitary encomium might have called it clean save around the hideous closed stove where muddy boots, coal-dust, pipe-dottels, and the bitter-end of five-a-penny "gaspers" rebuked his rashness. A less inviting, less inspiring, less home-like room for human habitation could scarce be found outside a jail.
Nan pushed an armchair towards the fire and tendered her cigarette case. "You needn't be afraid of them, Uncle David," she informed him reassuringly. "They're not gaspers." "Sybarite! With the same confidence as if they were my own." And Lord St. John helped himself smilingly. "And why," he continued, "has the barometer fallen?" Nan laughed. "You can't expect it to be always 'set fair'!"
Sandy dropped into a chair, absent-mindedly lighting one of the "gaspers" he had so recently purchased. "We must work it out," he said slowly. "Rooke told you they were going to Clovelly, didn't he?" "Yes." "Well, they're not going anywhere near. That was just a blind. They took the London road." "Even that mightn't mean they were going to London. They could branch off anywhere."
"Shoes, boots, pants, edges of trousers; two pipes, one pouch, six packets of gaspers; one entire tray of crockery; one air-cushion dropped in fright by stewardess; one coil of rope, one life-buoy, one tin can dented, one man's ankles slightly bruised; one bare patch to ship's cat's back. . . ." And so on and so forth; whilst murmurs arose from the sufferers, who chorused that "they didn't want no compensation, only too pleased to part with their bits, as long . . ." etc., etc.
"Just to show that there's no ill-feeling, I'll accept one of your gaspers, if you'll allow me. There's nothing for me to explain. My name is Lord Taborley and I'm a friend of Mrs. Lockwood. There's nothing else." The stranger leaned forward. His humor left him, revealing his premature haggardness. He laid a hand on Tabs' arm and asked a question. "You're fond of her?"
He dressed quickly in a small tent erected on the shore and then, whistling cheerfully and with his towel slung over his shoulders, took his way up the beach to where his bicycle stood propped against a boulder. A few minutes' pedalling brought him into St. Wennys, where he dismounted to buy a packet of "gaspers" dispensed by the village postmistress.
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