instinctively avoids any narrowness of pose. In walking he thrusts out
his shoulders, elbows, and knees, and it is rather the thing to
dominate a sphere of influence beyond this by swinging his stick. At
first the beginner will find this weapon a little apt to slip from the
hand and cause inconvenience to the general public; but he must not mind
that. After a few such misadventures he will acquire dexterity.

All Blades smoke--publicly at least. To smoke a white meerschaum in the
streets, however, is very inferior form. The proper smoking is a briar,
and, remember, it is not smart to have a new pipe. So soon as he buys
it, the Blade takes his pipe home, puts it on a glowing fire to burn the
rim, scrapes this away, burns it again, and so on until it looks a
sullen desperado of a pipe--a pipe with a wild past. Sometimes he cannot
smoke a pipe. In this case he may--for his stomach's sake--smoke a
cigarette. And, besides, there is something cynical about a cigarette.
For the very young Blade there are certain makes of cigarette that burn
well--they are mixed with nitre--and these may be smoked by holding them
in the left hand and idly swinging them to and fro in the air. If it
were not for the public want of charity, I would recommend a well-known
brand. A Blade may always escape a cigar by feigning a fastidious taste.
"None of your Cabanas" is rather good style.

The Blade, it must be understood--especially by the Blade's
friends--spends his time in a whirl of dissipation. That is the
symbolism of the emphatic obliquity of the costume. First, he drinks.
The Blade at Harrow, according to a reliable authority, drinks cherry
brandy and even champagne; other Blades consume whisky-and-soda; the
less costly kind of Blade does it on beer. And here the beginner is
often at a loss. Let us say he has looked up the street and down,
ascertained that there are no aunts in the air, and then plunged into