."

"Don't show me," Abe cried hurriedly. "I'll tell you the truth: there
ain't nothing in the smoking habit. I'm going to cut it out. Waiter,
bring me only a plate of clear soup and some dry toast. There ain't no
need for a feller to smoke, Moe; it's only an extra expense."

"I think you're right, Abe," Moe said; "but I know that this here cigar
cost Leon a quarter on board ship here, and I thought I would show him
he shouldn't get so gay."

Despite Abe's resolution, however, a large black cigar protruded from
his moustache when he stood on the wharf at Cherbourg, twenty-four hours
later, and a small, ill-shaven stevedore, clad in a dark blouse and
shabby corduroy trousers, pointed to the cloud of smoke that issued from
Abe's lips and chattered a voluble protest.

"What does he say, Moe?" Abe asked.

"I don't know," Moe replied. "He's talking French."

"French!" Abe exclaimed. "What are you trying to do--kid me? A dirty
_schlemiel_ of a greenhorn like him should talk French! What an idee!"

Nevertheless, Abe was made to throw away his cigar, and it was not until
the quartette were snugly enclosed in a first-class compartment en route
to Paris that Abe felt safe to indulge in another cigar. He explored his
pockets, but without result.

"Moe," he said, "do you got maybe another cigar on you?"

"I'm smoking the one which Leon give it me on the ship the other day,"
Moe replied. "Leon, be a good feller; give him a cigar."

"I give you my word, Moe, this is the last one," Leon replied as he bit
the end off a huge invincible.

"You got something there bulging in your vest pocket, Abe. Why don't you
smoke it?"

"That ain't a cigar," Abe answered; "that's a fountain pen."

"Smoke it anyhow," Leon advised; "because the only cigars you could get
on this train is French Government cigars, and I'd sooner tackle a
fountain pen as one of them rolls of spinach."

"That's a country!" Abe commented. "Couldn't even get a decent cigar
here!"

"In Paris you could get plenty good cigars," Hymie Salzman said, and
Hymie was right for, at the Gare St. Lazare, M. Adolphe Kaufmann-Levi,
_commissionnaire_, awaited them, his pockets literally spilling
red-banded perfectos at every gesture of his lively fingers. M.
Kaufmann-Levi spoke English, French, and German with every muscle of his
body from the waist up.

"Welcome to France, Mr. Potash," he said. "You had a good voyage,
doubtless; because you Americans are born sailors."