"If you please," Tom called back.
Ferrers soon appeared, puffing at a blackened corn-cob pipe. He was a somewhat stooped, much bronzed, rather thin man of middle age. Ferrers had always worked hard, and his body looked slightly the worse for wear, though he a man of known endurance in rough life.
"Ferrers, do you know what ails this boy?" demanded Tom.
"Laziness," Jim answered, rather curtly. "You hired him for a chore-boy, to help me. He hasn't done a tap yet. He's no good."
"Don't be too hard on him, Ferrers," pleaded Tom solemnly. "I've just heard the youngster's sad story. Do you know what really ails him? Cigarettes!"
"Him? Cigarettes!" observed Ferrers disgustedly. "The miserable little rascal!"
"You see," smiled Tom, turning to the boy, "just what men think of a lad who tries to look manly by smoking cigarettes."
"Cigarettes? Manly?" exploded Jim Ferrers, with a guffaw. "Men don't smoke cigarettes. That's left for weak-minded boys."
"Say, how many years you been smoking, Jim Ferrers?" demanded Alf, rather defiantly.
"Answer him, please," requested Tom, when he saw their guide and cook frown.