Watley and I were settled comfortably in the smoking room. I in my smoking jacket reclined elegantly in my smoking chair, while Watley in his smoking jacket perched somewhat less elegantly on his smoking chair.
"I -kof- say, Sleuthe," said Watley, speaking somewhat indistinctly around the stem of his pipe, "that was quite a nasty bit of the ol' grippe there, wot?" Watley punctuated his statement with a loud hacking noise.
"Indeed, indeed," I muttered as I lit the end of my cigar with my smoking match. "Nasty -kof- fever, unpleasant -kof- muscle pains, stuffed -kof- sinuses, painful -kof- throat. Then of course there's the cough."
"Indeed -hack-, the cough. How do you feel now, -kof- Sleuthe old boy?"
"Fine, just fine, fully recovered. Except of course for this -kof-kof- cough."
"It's been weeks. Wonder why the damned thing won't go away?" Watley tapped some ash into the smoking tray, sputtering.
"No idea, Watley ol' chap. It's a -kof- mystery indeed. Cigar?"
"Don't mind if I -hack- do."
Soon enough Watley and I each had a pipe, cigar, and a few cigarettes puffing along merrily.