"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. "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!"