"Man," said the iron-nerved Bombing Officer, "it's a Brownhill."

"What's a Brownhill?" asked Jackson.

We gasped. How could we begin to tell him of that West End shrine from
which issue these lacquered symbols of a New Religion?

The Intelligence Officer was reviving. We looked to him.

"The prophet Brownhill," he said, "was once a tobacconist--an ordinary
tobacconist who sold pipes."

We shuddered.

"He discovered one day that man wants more than mere pipes. He wants
a--a super-pipe, something to reverence and--er--look after, you know,
as well as to smoke. So he invented the Brownhill. It is an _affaire de
coeur_--an affair of art," translated the I.O. proudly. "It is as glossy
as a chestnut in its native setting, and you can buy furniture polish
from the prophet Brownhill which will keep it always so. It has its
year, like a famous vintage, it has a silver wind-pipe, and it costs
anything up to fifty guineas."

"D'you smoke it'?" asked Jackson, brutally.

We gave him up. In awful silence each of us produced his wrappings and
his caskets, extracted the shining briar, smeared it with cosmetics, and
polished it more reverently than a peace time Guardsman polishes his
buttons when warned for duty next day at "Buck."