"Ah!" nodded the Waggoner.

"Then here are three cigars which you didn't manage to smash just now."

"Cigars! why it ain't often as I gets so far as a cigar, unless it be
Squire, or Parson,--cigars, eh!" Saying which, the Waggoner turned and
accepted the cigars which he proceeded to stow away in the cavernous
interior of his wide-eaved hat, handling them with elaborate care,
rather as if they were explosives of a highly dangerous kind.

Meanwhile, George Bellew, American Citizen, and millionaire, lay upon
the broad of his back, staring up at the cloudless blue above, and
despite heart break, and a certain Haunting Shadow, felt singularly
content, which feeling he was at some pains with himself to account for.

"It's the exercise," said he, speaking his thought aloud, as he
stretched luxuriously upon his soft, and fragrant couch, "after all,
there is nothing like a little exercise."

"That's what they all say!" nodded the Waggoner. "But I notice as them
as says it, ain't over fond o' doing of it,--they mostly prefers to lie
on their backs, an' talk about it,--like yourself."

"Hum!" said Bellew, "ha! 'Some are born to exercise, some achieve
exercise, and some, like myself, have exercise thrust upon them.' But,
anyway, it is a very excellent thing,--more especially if one is
affected with a--er--broken heart."

"A w'ot?" enquired the Waggoner.