"Of course you did."
Tommy put the cigar into his mouth; he did not like the taste of the thing, but he felt that it was a good cause, and he was willing to be a martyr. Ben lent him his cigar to light it by; and with a little instruction from his friends, he was soon able to puff away as smart as any of them.
It was not half so bad as he had feared it would be. It did not make him sick, at first, and he thought he was one of that kind who can smoke without learning.
He felt as big as his companions then, for the wrong idea that smoking was smart had taken full possession of him.
There are some savages who paint their faces—they think it is smart; we don't think so. Some Indians wear bits of tin fastened to the ends of their noses—they think it looks pretty; we don't think so.
It does not follow, therefore, that every thing that looks smart is so. A little boy, or any boy, with a cigar in his mouth, is a disgusting sight to sensible people. We never heard of any man who thought it was smart for boys to smoke, or to make use of tobacco in any way.
"Now, Tom, tell us something about New York while we are smoking," said Ben.
"Well, I will, if you wish me to do so; but I have got almost tired of talking about New York. Everybody wants to know what I saw there."
