* * * * *
And Jackson smoked his pipe in secret. He would take no leaf from the
book of the Sassenachs.

And the War went on.
* * * * *
Jackson went on leave. To his deep disgust he had to wait a few hours in
London on his way to more civilised parts, and fate led him idling to
Brownhill's. He flattened his Celtic nose on the window and stared
fascinated at the array of super-pipes displayed there. After a furtive
glance along the street he crept into the temple. A white-coated priest
met him.

"I--I'm wantin'--a--a pipe," said Jackson. He saw the priest reel and
turn pale to the lips. "I should say a--a Brownhill," he added hastily.
The other man gulped, steadied himself with an effort, and gave a
ghastly smile. If you had walked into a temple at Thibet and planked
down sixpence and asked for an idol wrapped up in brown paper you could
not have done a more dreadful thing than Jackson had done; but the
priest forgave him and produced in silence a trayful of Brownhills. Then
was Jackson like unto ELIA'S little Chinese boy with "the crackling." He
touched a briar and was converted. He stroked them as though they were
kittens, bought ten of them, a pound of polish, fifty silver wind-pipes
and a bale of chamois-leather. The priest took a deep breath.

"You are a full-blooded man, Sir," said he, "if you will excuse me
saying so, and you should smoke in your new Brownhills a mixture which
has a proportion of Latakia to Virginian of one to nineteen--a small
percentage of glycerine and cucumber being added because you have red
hair, and the whole submitted to a pressure of eighteen hundred