The cigarette (known as the Demon Cigarette, the Filthy Weed, and the Coffin Nail) had been a dreadful struggle. But he had won out.
He loathed the Demon Cigarette as he abhorred tobacco in any form, but he had martyrized himself until he was able to puff up the cold-air flue in the stilly reaches of the night without having to grope his way back to the bed and watch the room careen about him. He did not inhale, but he had learned to imitate the process so as to defy detection, as he exclaimed:
"Gee! It's good to fill the old lungs, isn't it?"
These things, by dint of concentration and courage, Skippy had achieved, not to stand ashamed in the eyes of his roommate. And, having with pain and perseverance traveled this far, he suddenly, this night, realized how much was still lacking.
Yes, there was certainly something lacking in his progress towards perfect manhood, something that Snorky had and he had not.
It was all very well to be a man, to smoke, to shave, and to have acquired the sartorial evidence. This was all very well—but others must perceive it, too! This was the point. As Snorky had done, he must do.
The new world to conquer was the feminine heart.
Now, Skippy had not at this moment the slightest inclination towards the lovelier sex.
He did not aspire to be a Don Juan or a Beau Brummel, but if he were to continue to room with Snorky Green he must acquire at least the appearance. He perceived this. It pained him that in the scheme of things it should be so—but a reputation he must have.