"I'd choke to death," said the old man, shifting his cigar hastily
from one side of his mouth to the other, and taking a fresh grip on
it with his teeth,--as if fearing the consequences of a momentary
lapse of control.

"You've been chewing that cigar for nearly two hours," observed
the young man. "I call that a filthy habit."

"I guess you're right," agreed the other, amiably. "The best you
can say for it is that it's a man's job, and not a woman's," he
added, with all the scorn that the cigar smoker has for the man
who affects nothing but cigarettes.

"You can't make me sore by talking like that," said his companion,
stretching himself lazily. "Approximately ten million men smoked
cigarettes over in France for four years and more, and I submit
that they had what you might call a man's job on their hands."

"How many of them things do you smoke in a day?"

"It depends entirely on how early I get up in the morning,--and
how late I stay up at night. Good Lord, it's getting hotter every
minute. For two cents, I'd strip and jump in there for a game of
hide and seek with the fish. By the way, I don't suppose there are
any mermaids in these parts, are there?"

"You stay out of that water," commanded the old man. "You ain't
strong enough yet to be takin' any such chances. You're here to get
well, and you got to be mighty all-fired careful. The bed of that
river is full of cold springs,--and it's pretty deep along this