ANGEL PAVEMENT

"Not at all, not at all," said T. Benenden, still staring.
"No offence taken, I assure you. What I really meant
was, it's a queer question for me to answer. You say to
me, 'Are you a married man, Mr. Benenden?' Well, the
only answer I can give to that is—I am—and then again
I'm not. What do you make of that?"

Before Mr. Smeeth had time to make anything of it,
a youth rushed in, flung some coppers on the counter,
and cried: "Packet o' gaspers. Ten."

Mr. Benenden contemptuously threw down a packet
of cigarettes, contemptuously swept the coppers away,
and watched the youth rush out again with even greater
contempt.

"You saw that, you 'eard it?" he said scornfully.
" 'Packet o' gaspers. Packet o* gaspers.' Rushes in,
rushes out, never stops to say please or thank you, never
stops to think. Just—packet o* gaspers- Can't even say
of. A packet of gaspers. Now that," he continued gravely,
his eyes fixed on Mr. Smeeth's apparently without once
winking, "is the ruin of the tobacco trade to-day. I, don't
mean there's no money in it. There is money in it.
That's where the big forchewns 'ave been made—packets
o' gaspers. If you and me had had the sense to realise,
when the War started, that this packet o' gasper business
was bound to come, bound to come—men smoking 'em,
women smoking 'em, boys and girls smoking 'em—we
could have made our forchewns, as easy as that. You
watch for the big dividends in our trade—where are
they? It isn't tobacco that's behind 'em—it's packets o'
gaspers. Same with the shops. Quick turnover, in and
out. throw 'em down, pick 'em up, outchew go. Easy
money. All right. But I say it's the ruin of the tobac-
conist to-day. And why? It takes the 'eart out of the