Using his elbow to keep the tiller heading the ferry in the necessary direction, Len stuck a Tally-ho to the saliva on his cracked bottom lip. Being used to being busy, what city slickers referred to as multitasking, he continued his chat with the deck hand about the number of cartons to offload at Little Wobbly, as he shook the ready rubbed from the red Drum tin into the crook of his palm, caressing it into shape with the seat of his thumb and his index finger. Upending the shaped tabac onto the moistened paper now beside the tiller, he twizzled the paper until satisfied, rolled, licked, sealed and drooped it out the corner of his mouth. Reaching for the Redheads by feel, he slashed the head against the phosphorous, lit the fag, and dragged deep.
He squinted as the ferry churned into the glare. On course, and all fine.