"There are NO white ones," he said.

"There is no white ANYTHING in your city; no white window-curtains, no white house, no white peeble!" He pointed upward.
"Smoke!" Then he sniffed the air and clasped his nose between forefinger and thumb.

"Smoke! Smoke ef'rywhere.

Smoke in your insites." He tapped his chest.

"Smoke in your lunks!" "Oh! SMOKE!" Sheridan cried with gusto, drawing in a deep breath and patently finding it delicious.