“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Look at the end o’ this cigar.”
“I don’t see anything wrong. It looks like a fine cigar, and it seems to burn well,” answered Tom, as soberly as a judge.
“Don’t you see the—the worms?”
“Worms! Mr. Ricks you are dreaming!”
“Ain’t that a—er—a worm?” shouted the station master, pointing with his finger at the thing dangling at the end of the cigar.
“Mr. Ricks, you must have ’em again,” answered Tom, and looked deeply shocked. “You had better go and see a doctor. This cigar smoking has got on your nerves.”
“It ain’t so! I see the worms! There they are!” And the station master poked his finger into the mass.
Now, as those who are acquainted with the fireworks known as Serpent’s Eggs, or Pharaoh’s Serpents, know, the “worms” or “serpents” are very fragile and go to dust at the slightest touch. Consequently when Ricks placed his finger rudely on those at the end of the cigar they were knocked off, and falling to the floor, were completely shattered to dust. At this the station master started in amazement.
“Where are the worms?” asked Tom. “I don’t see them?”