"I don't care---but
I won't smoke that pipe. There!"
He flung it violently to the ground, smashing the pipe.
"You little-----" began the cook, making a leap after the youngster.
But Alf, his sense of self-preservation still being strong, fled
with more speed than might have been looked for in one so ill.
Tom Reade, passing a clump of bushes, and hearing low moans, stopped
to investigate. He found the little cigarette fiend stretched
out on the ground, his face drawn and pale.
"What on earth is the matter, mosquito?" inquired Reade, with
more sympathy than his form of speech attested.
"Oh, dear!" wailed Alf.
"So I gathered," said Tom dryly. "But who got behind you and scared
you in that fashion?"
"O-o-oh, dear!"
"You said that before; but what's up?"
"At first I was afraid I was going to die," Alf declared tremulously.
"Yes?"
"And now I'm afraid I won't die!"
Alf sat up shivering convulsively.
"Now, Alf," Tom pursued, "tell me just what happened.
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