"I—don't—know," gasped Sam, his eyes rolling; "I—feel—sick."
"Do you? Don't mind it; it'll pass off."
"I think I'm going to die," said Sam, in a hollow voice. "Does smoking ever kill people?"
"Not often," said Brown, soothingly.
"I think it's goin' to kill me," said Sam, mournfully.
"Lie down on the bench. You'll feel better soon."
Sam lay down on his back, and again he wished himself safely back at the deacon's. New York seemed to him a very dreadful place. His head ached; his stomach was out of tune, and he felt very unhappy.
"Lie here a little while, and you'll feel better," said his companion. "I'll be back soon."
He walked away to indulge in a laugh at his victim's expense, and Sam was left alone.