"
"Then you have my heartfelt sympathy," Tom assured him. "I hate
to see any boy with that low-down habit, and I'm glad that I'm
not in position to be able to encourage you in it. How long have
you been smoking, Drew?"
Alf Drew shifted once more on his feet.
"'Bouter year," he answered.
"You began poisoning yourself at the age of thirteen, and you've
lived a whole year? No; I won't say 'lived,' but you've kept
pretty nearly alive. There isn't much real life in you, Drew,
I'll be bound. Come here."
"Do I get the makings?" whined the boy.
"Come here!"
Drew advanced, rather timidly, into the tent.
"Don't shrink so," ordered Tom. "I'm not going to spank you,
though some one ought to. Give me your wrist."
Reade took the thin little wrist between his thumb and finger,
feeling for the pulse.
"Are you a doctor?" sneered Drew.
"No; but generally I've intelligence enough to know whether a
pulse is slow or fast, full or weak."
"But-----"
"Keep quiet," Tom commanded, as he drew out his watch.
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