“Why—I—er—that is—they were here!” stammered Ricks.
“Where?”
“On the end o’ the cigar.”
“Then where are they now?” demanded Tom. “Give me one, till I examine it.”
“Why they—they are—er—gone now.”
“Gone?”
“Yes. Say, I don’t know about this!” And the old station master commenced to scratch his head. He looked at the cigar wonderingly. But no more “worms” were forthcoming, for the reason that the pellets Tom had placed within had burnt themselves out.
“You certainly ought to see a doctor—or else give up smoking cigars,” said Tom, as soberly as ever.
“Tom Rover, ain’t this no trick o’ yours?”
“Trick? Do you think I am a wizard? I find you smoking a cigar and you go and see worms, or snakes, just as if you had been drinking. Maybe you do drink.”