a suggestion.

Crumpled against the wall, his head bowed forward and cramped, the
stern old man still controlled them with the upward glance of his eyes
through the shag of eyebrows.

"Gimme my pipe," he commanded.

Three hands reached for it--pipe, tobacco, matches were proffered to
him. Before he accepted the articles he swept their faces with a
glance of satisfaction. Without attempting to change the position
which must have been torturing him, he filled the pipe bowl, his
fingers moving as if he had partially lost control of them. He filled
it raggedly, shreds of tobacco hanging down around the bowl. He bent
his head to meet the left hand which he raised with difficulty, then
he tried to light a match. But he seemed incapable of moving the
sulphur head fast enough to bring it to a light with friction. Match
after match crumbled as he continued his efforts.

"Here, lemme light a match for you, Dad!"

Harry's offer was received with a silent curling of the lips and a
glint of the yellow teeth beneath that made him step back. The old man
continued his work. There were a dozen wrecked matches before the
blood began to stir in his numbed arm and he was able to light the
match and the pipe. He drew several breaths of the smoke deep into his
lungs. For the moment the savage, hungry satisfaction changed his
face; they could tell by that alteration what agonies he had been
suffering before.