"I've got a couple of A. No. 1 millionaire cigars," he said in a whisper. "If you've got nothing better, why, come along."
"I'm yours on the jump," said Dink, trying to give to his words a joy which he was far from feeling in his stomach.
"You smoke cigars?"
"Do I!"
"Come on, then!"
It was the last day of March, which had gone out like a lamb, leaving the ground still chill and moist with the memory of departed snows. They went down by the pond in the shelter of the grove and McCarty proudly produced two cigars coated with gilt foil.
"They look the real thing to me," said Dink, eying the long projectiles with a rakish, professional look.
Now, Dink had never smoked a cigar in his life and was alarmed at the thought of the task before him; but he was resolved to die a lingering death rather than allow that humiliating secret to be discovered.
"You bet they're the real thing," said Tough McCarty, slipping off the foil. "Real, black beauties! Get the flavor?"
Dink approached the ominous black cigar to his nose, sniffed it rapturously and cocked a knowing eye.