Bert leaned back in the chair and caressed the end of his straight nose with the rubber tip of his pencil. “Depends,” he replied. “If you mean at that evil-smelling dive you dragged me into last week the answer is no, Chick.”
“What’s the matter with Mooney’s?” demanded the other. “He’s got the best tables in town.”
“I know, but the smoke’s so thick there you could cut it with a knife, and it makes my eyes smart. That’s why you beat me last time.”
“Shucks, a little smoke won’t hurt you. Come on. Besides, when a fellow can’t smoke himself a little of the aroma of the weed isn’t so bad.”
“Maybe, but I noticed the last time that it sort of made you absent-minded, Chick.”
“How do you mean? Oh, that! Shucks, one cigarette at this stage of the game doesn’t matter. We weren’t really in training last Saturday, any way.”
Bert Hollins smiled and shook his head. “That’s a punk alibi, Chick. Suppose some one had happened to look in? There’d been the dickens to pay.”
“Some one being Johnny Cade?” asked Chick, grinning. “Johnny doesn’t frequent that part of town, old son. Don’t look so blamed virtuous or I’ll punch your head. Anyway, I’m off the things until we quit training.”
“Which being so,” said the other, “you’d better get rid of the box in your top drawer. They might tempt you, Charles, beyond your power of resistance.”