Cookham cigars Scrymgeour could not smoke; cigarettes he only endured if made from the Arcadia.
At Cookham he could only get tobacco that made him uncomfortable.

Having recently begun to use a new pouch, he searched his pockets in vain for odd shreds of the Mixture to which he had so contemptibly become a slave.

In a very bad temper he took to his dingy, vowing for a little while that he would violently break the chains that bound him to one tobacco, and afterward, when he was restored to his senses that he would jilt the Arcadia gradually.

He had pulled some distance down the river, without regarding the Cliveden Woods, when he all but ran into a blaze of Chinese lanterns.

It was a house-boat called--let us change its name to the _Heathen Chinee_.