"Why 'Hawknose'?" he inquired.
"A blend. First syllable of Hawkshaw and second of Furneaux--the latter
Anglicized, of course."
"And vulgarized."
"You prefer Furshaw, perhaps?"
"Either effort is feeble for a man who can write about South America,
and be lucid. Do you smoke this stuff, may I ask?" While talking, he had
smelt and destroyed the second cigarette.
"If it's a fair question, what the devil do _you_ smoke?" cried Hart.
"Nothing. I'm a non-smoker. My profession demands a clear intellect, not
a brain atrophied by nicotine."
"Piffle! Carlyle and Bismarck were smokers."
"Who reads Carlyle now-a-days? And what modern German pays heed to
Bismarck's dogmas? Look at that pipe of yours. It was once a pure ivory
white. Now it is black--soiled by tobacco juice. Your lungs are slowly
emulating it, and your wits will cloud in time. Read Tolstoi, Mr. Hart.
He will teach you how nicotine deadens the conscience."
"At last I know why I smoke like a Thames tug," laughed Hart, "but I'm
blest if I can understand why _you_ make such a study of the vile weed."
"Most criminals are addicted to the habit. I classify them by their brand
of tobacco.
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