"It ain't!"
"Well, what is it?"
"How d' ye know I want anything?"
"Oh, I just guess, maybe."
"Well, say—if you could cop me one o' Geoff's cigarettes—one o' them with gold letterin' onto 'em—"
"You mean—thieve you one!"
"Why, no, a cigarette ain't thievin'. Say, now, dear old Trapesy, I'm jest dyin' for a gasper!"
"Well, you go on dyin', an' I'll set right here an' watch how you do it."
"If I was t' die you'd be sorry for this, I reckon."
"Anyway, I'd plant some flowers on you, my lad, an' keep your lonely grave nice—"