"You're always itching to be a man," mocked the cook. "And now's
your chance. A pipe is a man's smoke. Them cigs are fit only
for 'sheeters."
"I don't wanter smoke it," pleaded Alf, drawing back from the
proffered pipe.
"You take matches, light that pipe and smoke it," insisted the
cook, a man named Leon, in a tone that compelled obedience.
Poor Alf smoked wretchedly away. Finally, when he thought Leon
wasn't looking, he tried to hide the pipe.
"Here, you keep that a-going!" ordered the cook wrathfully, wheeling
upon the miserable youngster.
So Alf puffed up, feebly, and, when the pipe went out, he lighted
the tobacco again.
"Here!" he protested, three minutes later, handing back the pipe.
"Smoke it!" gruffed Leon.
"I---I don't wanter."
"Smoke it!"
"I---I can't," pleaded Alf Drew, the ghastly pallor of his face
bearing out his assertion.
"You smoke that pipe, or I'll-----"
"You can kill me, if you wanter," gasped, Alf, feeling far more
ill than he had ever felt in his life before.
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