“Marsh! What’re you doing, man?” I called across to
my friend, who was tapping his way around my study, one ear to the wall. Suddenly, he grinned and, grasping the hammer
he had by his foot, he applied it with an almost fanatical vigour to the
antique oak panelling in front of him.
For a good ten minutes this continued, until he broke through the sturdy
planks, and stuck his bared arm through the hole he’d just created, withdrawing
it only moments later clutching a small, grubby suede pouch.
Opening the
drawstring, he withdrew a pinch of the flaky, black-brown substance within,
sniffed it, and smiled, pocketing the entire package. Only then did he address me, his face
content. “Tobacco. Ran out of it for my pipe, and I’ve no
opportunity to replenish my own supply for a few days, so this ought to tide me
over, at least ‘til then. Do thank your
great-great-great grandfather for me, won’t you?” Then he turned smartly on his heels, and left
me standing there, surrounded by splinters of irreplaceable wood and no idea
what had just happened, except that somehow Camden Marsh was one pouch of
tobacco better off.
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