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DURING A STOP
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ON THE EDGE OF SPAIN
not only from his huge capacious pockets but also from his hat, the inside of his waistcoat, his shirt, his sleeves, nay, even from his boots and trouser-legs. The forward settee being covered with a layer of tobacco, we rise, obligingly, while our seat is in a like manner re-*upholstered with a dozen pounds of dutiable weed. Then finally, after replacing the cushions, the smuggling guard departs with an engaging smile, but without a word, trusting—not vainly—in our silence. And as at the next station we watch the Spanish venders of provisions, we see in almost every mouth a cigarette. Given the national love of nicotine, it is small wonder that the vicinity of the free port of Gibraltar should prove a profitable
