relish. Besides these accomplishments, he played a very smooth hand
at the great American game. While Mr. Robert's admiration was not
aroused, it was surely awakened.

My hero had no trouble with the customs officials. A brace of old
French dueling pistols and a Turkish simitar were the only articles
which might possibly have been dutiable. The inspector looked hard,
but he was finally convinced that Mr. Robert was _not_ a
professional curio-collector. Warburton, never having returned from
abroad before, found a deal of amusement and food for thought in the
ensuing scenes. There was one man, a prim, irascible old fellow, who
was not allowed to pass in two dozen fine German razors. There was a
time of it, angry words, threats, protestations. The inspector stood
firm. The old gentleman, in a fine burst of passion, tossed the
razors into the water. Then they were going to arrest him for
smuggling. A friend extricated him. The old gentleman went away,
saying something about the tariff and an unreasonably warm place
which has as many synonyms as an octopus has tentacles.

Another man, his mouth covered by an enormous black mustache which
must have received a bath every morning in coffee or something
stronger, came forward pompously. I don't know to this day what magic
word he said, but the inspectors took never a peep into his
belongings. Doubtless they knew him, and that his word was as good as
his bond.

Here a woman wept because the necklace she brought trustingly from
Rotterdam must be paid for once again; and here another, who clenched
her fists (do women have fists?) and if looks could have killed there
would have been a vacancy in customs forthwith. All her choicest