"Laziness," Jim answered, rather curtly. "You hired him for a
chore-boy, to help me. He hasn't done a tap yet. He's no good."

"Don't be too hard on him, Ferrers," pleaded Tom solemnly. "I've
just heard the youngster's sad story. Do you know what really ails
him? Cigarettes!"

"Him? Cigarettes!" observed Ferrers disgustedly. "The miserable
little rascal!"

"You see," smiled Tom, turning to the boy, "just what men think
of a lad who tries to look manly by smoking cigarettes."

"Cigarettes? Manly?" exploded Jim Ferrers, with a guffaw. "_Men_
don't smoke cigarettes. That's left for weak-minded boys."

"Say, how many years you been smoking, Jim Ferrers?" demanded Alf,
rather defiantly.

"Answer him, please," requested Tom, when he saw their guide and
cook frown.

"Lemme see," replied the Nevada man, doing some mental arithmetic
on his fingers. "I reckon I've been smoking twenty-three years,
because I began when I was twenty-four years old. Hang the stuff,
I wish I had never begun, either. But I didn't smoke at your
age, papoose. If I had done so, the men in the camps would have
kicked me out. Don't let me catch you smoking around any of the
work you're helping me on! Is that all, Mr. Reade? 'Cause I've
got a power of work to do."