your own sake I'm sorry that you do."

"But a lot of men do smoke," argued Alf. "Jim Ferrers, for instance."

"Ferrers is a grown man, and it would show a lot more respect
on your part if a 'kid' like you would call him 'Mr. Ferrers.'
But I'll wager that Mr. Ferrers didn't smoke cigarettes at your
age."

"I'll bet he did."

"We'll see."

Tom stepped to the doorway of the tent, Alf making way for him,
and called lustily:

"Ferrers! Oh, Mr. Ferrers!"

"Here, sir!" answered the voice of a man who was invisible off under
the trees. "Want me?"

"If you please," Tom called back.

Ferrers soon appeared, puffing at a blackened corn-cob pipe. He was
a somewhat stooped, much bronzed, rather thin man of middle age.
Ferrers had always worked hard, and his body looked slightly the
worse for wear, though he a man of known endurance in rough life.

"Ferrers, do you know what ails this boy?" demanded Tom.