Whenever Mr. Marrapit had occasion to speak with Mr. Fletcher, after
the first few exchanges he would swallow with distinct effort. It was
wrath he swallowed; and bitter as the pill was, rarely did he fail to
force it down. Mr. Fletcher spoke to him as no other member of his
establishment dared speak. The formula of dismissal would leap to Mr.
Marrapit's mouth: knowledge of the unusually small wage for which Mr.
Fletcher worked caused it to be stifled ere it found tongue. Thousands
of inferiors have daily to bow to humiliations from their employers;
it is an encouraging thought for this army that masters there be who,
restrained by parsimony, daily writhe beneath impertinences from
valuable, ill-paid servants.

Mr. Marrapit swallowed. He said: "To the smell of which I complain my
cats are no party. It is tobacco. The air reeks of tobacco. I will not
have tobacco in my garden."

Twice, with a roaring sound, Mr. Fletcher inhaled. He pointed towards
an elm against the wall: "It comes from over there."

"Ascertain."

The gardener plunged through the bushes; nosed laboriously; his
inhalations rasped across the shrubs. "There's no smoking here," he
called.

"Someone, in some place concealed, indubitably smokes. Yourself you
have noticed it. Follow the scent."

Exertion beaded upon Mr. Fletcher's brow. He drew his hand across it;
thrust a damp and gloomy face between the foliage towards his master.