"I can't," said Jack, still hiding his face. "I feel such a beast."
"But I want to find out what's making you feel like that."
"And you'll hate me for ever and ever," said Jack, disclosing one scarlet eye.
"God forbid," said Tom, solemnly.
"I didn't mean to tell—a lie"—Jack's tongue stumbled over the disgraceful word—"I thought you'd be angry with me for smoking and I said I wasn't, all in a hurry, but I wish I hadn't."
"So do I," interposed Tom.
"But you can have it, you can have 'em all," and Jack rose to his feet and fumbled in both his pockets, producing a dirty little pocket handkerchief, with which he mopped his eyes, a ball of twine, which he threw impatiently on the ground, and finally a box of matches and a half-smoked cigarette. He handed the cigarette and the matches to Tom with a shaking hand, who put them into his own pocket.
"Now tell me how you got it?"
"I bought 'em out of my pocket money."
"Then you've smoked before?"