Fyles drew a packet of cheap cigarettes from his fur coat pocket.
“Have they taken your smoke?” he asked.
The Wolf eyed the packet hungrily. He nodded.
“Every darn thing.”
“Take these.” Fyles pitched the packet across to him. “Smoke all you need.”
The Wolf flashed a look of gratitude.
“Say, Sergeant,” he cried, “that’s pretty swell of you. I’ll likely remember till they hang me.”
The man’s fingers literally tore the packet open. The tobacco hunger with which he thrust a cigarette into his mouth was pathetic. Fyles sympathized.
“I’ve been nigh crazed for one o’ these,” the Wolf sighed. “May I have a light?”
“Surely. It’s hell without smoke.”