“I don’t know but the Barnacle would sprout wings and fly through the air after Purt,” giggled Bobby.
“It isn’t the dog this time that troubles Purt—deah boy!” drawled Lance Darby.
“What is it?” asked Laura.
“Purt’s day is spoiled,” declared Lance. “He has come off without his cigarettes.”
“Cigarettes!” exclaimed Jess. “I thought we had shown him the folly of smoking coffin nails long ago.” 167
“Oh, he doesn’t smoke any,” Lance returned. “But he always carries a case of them around with him. You know, he bought a thousand once with his monogram printed in gold on them, and he never will get rid of them all. He thought it would be a good thing to bring them to camp with him so as to use them for a smudge to chase off the mosquitoes.”
“And they work all right,” grunted Chet. “The smoke chases the mosquitoes, you can believe. But then, the smoke chases us, too. Purt’s brand of cigarettes is made out of long-filler Connecticut cabbage.”
“That’s all right; don’t make fun of the poor fellow,” Lance said, with exaggerated sympathy. “Even if anybody had cigarettes to lend him, he couldn’t smoke any with anothah fellah’s monogram on ’em, don’tcher know, old top?”
But it came out that there was something else on Purt Sweet’s mind. He had a very expensive rod, reel, and book of flies. And to tell the truth, he had never strung a line on such a rod, and did not know any more about using the flies than a baby in arms!
He hated to admit his ignorance, for the boys were not at all tender with the Central High dude. However, Chet and Lance were not ill-natured, and Purt plucked up courage finally to beg Lance 168 to take him privately up stream (when they reached the creek) and give him a lesson in fly-casting.