_Young Sp._ Oh, but you're pretty certain to get the smoke or the
ashes or something, blown slap into your eyes just as you're going to
loose off. No. (_With decision_.) I'm off my smoke when the popping
begins.

_Second Sp._ Don't be too hard on yourself, my boy. They tell me there
are precious few birds in the old planting this year, so you can treat
yourself to a cigarette when you get there. It never pays to trample
on one's longing for tobacco too much.

_Young Sp._ No, by Jove. Old REGGIE MORRIS told me of a fellow he met
somewhere this year, who goes regularly into training for shooting.
Never touches baccy from August to February, and limits his drink
to three pints a day, and no whiskeys and sodas. And what's more, he
won't let any of his guests smoke when he's got a shoot on, He's got
"No Smoking" posted up in big letters in every room in the house.
REGGIE said it was awful. He had to lock his bedroom door, shove the
chest-of-drawers against it, and smoke with his head stuck right up
the chimney. He got a peck of soot, one night, right on the top of his
nut. Now I call that simple rot.

_Second Sp._ Ah, I've heard of that man. Never met him though, I'm
thankful to say. Let me see what's the beggar's name? JACKSON or
BARRETT, or POLLARD, or something like that. He's got a big place
somewhere in Suffolk, or Yorkshire, or somewhere about there.

_Young Sp._ Yes, that's the chap, I fancy.

Now that kind of thing starts you very nicely for the day. It isn't