“Telephone cigars, that’s an odd name,” said Hank, with a wry face over his weed. Hank was one of those hollow-chested, pale-faced youths who think it smart to smoke but do so only with a great effort of will power.
“Yep, they calls ’em that, the boys says, because you can smoke ’em here and smell ’em in Boston.”
This choice witticism having being properly laughed at, Miles and Hank went further on their “fishing expedition.”
“These Chadwick boys now,” pursued Hank, “friends of young Nevins likely?”
“Wa’al, I dunno. I reckon he’s working for ’em on some sort of contraption. You know these Chadwick boys is right smart lads on such doodads. The Boy Inventors, they call ’em. Reckon maybe you’ve heard on ’em.”
“No, I don’t know that I have,” rejoined Miles. “So young Nevins is working for them, eh?”
“Er-huh. Has bin fer quite a spell.”
“Sort of mechanic, I suppose?”
“Wa’al, thar’ you got me,” admitted Mr. Hinkley. “I hearn’,” he went on, sinking his voice and growing confidential, “that them boys is working on some sort of er flyin’ machine er some sech foolishness.”