“Awfully glad to see you lads,” he said, seizing them in turn by the hand. “Come right in an’ make yourselves at home.”
“Making themselves at home” consisted of taking seats offered by Smithers, who produced a box of cigars and invited his guests to help themselves. The latter, however, not being addicted to the habit, declined.
“Wise lads, very wise,” declared the host warmly. “Nearly everybody smokes, but nearly everybody is foolish, too. My only regret is that I must smoke alone tonight.”
“I use’ to smoke, but my doctor told me I mus’ quit,” explained Artie. “He said it was likely to give me a London fog on the brain.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Smithers. “That’s a good one. I suppose he was afraid if you got fog on the brain, you might be held up.”
“Yes, he was afraid my business ability would be held up.”
“Good! Excellent! There’s a great lesson for smokers in that. Isn’t it so, Mr. Burton? I haven’t a doubt I’d be a millionaire if I hadn’t been addicted to the weed. I had excellent natural business ability. As it is, I’m only moderately well-to-do. What are your views on the subject, Mr. Burton?”
“I’m in a funny position on the subject of smoking,” said Guy. “I don’t believe it’s good for a fellow, and yet, I can’t believe it puts a London fog in everybody’s brain an’ holds up his business ability. My father smokes, and they say he’s the best business man in Ferncliffe.”
“Mebby he’d be another Baron Rothschild if he didn’t smoke,” suggested Artie.
“Didn’t Rothschild smoke?—an’, supposing he did, what’u’d he ’a’ been if he hadn’t?” was Guy’s logical inquiry.