“Gimme a cigarette,” Hicks commanded.

The cigarette, badly crumpled, was produced from one of Pugh’s pockets.

“Now give me a match.”

After waiting a while Pugh produced a box of matches. Then with a sigh: “Ah doan mind givin’ you cigarettes, Hicksy, but I hate like hell to carry ’em around for you.”

Silence.

“Where ya been?”

“Oh, out tryin’ to find some damned Frogs.”

“When do we go over again?”

“In the morning, I guess.”