"Substitute on the eleven and left field on the house nine," said Skippy, who understood at once the meaning of such an inquiry.
"First rate. Haven't started on the demon cigarette yet?"
Skippy hesitated.
"Let's see your fingers," said the mentor, who perceiving no telltales traces of nicotine grunted a qualified approval. "Well, how much?"
"Oh, just a few whiffs now and then up the ventilator. You know how it is, Sambo!"
"Cut it out this summer. Your business is to grow. Savvy? If ever I catch you, you young whipper-snapper—"
"All right, Sam."
Skippy the first held him a moment with a stern and disciplinary eye and then relaxing, said as he contemplated the hang of his trousers before the mirror, "I hear you've started in to be a fusser."
"Who told you that?" said Skippy with the rising inflection.