him a
mysterious wink.

"What's up?" said Dink instantly.

McCarty pulled him aside:

"I've got a couple of A. No. 1 millionaire cigars," he said in a
whisper. "If you've got nothing better, why, come along."

"I'm yours on the jump," said Dink, trying to give to his words a joy
which he was far from feeling in his stomach.

"You smoke cigars?"

"Do I!"

"Come on, then!"

It was the last day of March, which had gone out like a lamb, leaving
the ground still chill and moist with the memory of departed snows.
They went down by the pond in the shelter of the grove and McCarty
proudly produced two cigars coated with gilt foil.

"They look the real thing to me," said Dink, eying the long
projectiles with a rakish, professional look.

Now, Dink had never smoked a cigar in his life and was alarmed at the
thought of the task before him; but he was resolved to die a lingering
death rather than allow that humiliating secret to be discovered.

"You bet they're the real thing," said Tough McCarty, slipping off
the foil. "Real, black beauties! Get the flavor?"

Dink approached the ominous black cigar to his nose, sniffed it
rapturously and cocked a knowing eye.

"Aha!"

"Real Havanas!"

"They certainly smell good!"

"Swiped 'em off my brother-in-law, forty-five centers."

"I believe it. Say, what do you call 'em?"

"Invincibles."

The name threw a momentary chill over Stover, but he instantly
recovered.

"I say, we ought to have a couple of hatpins," he said, turning the
cigar in his fingers.

"What for?"

"Smoke 'em to the last puff!"

"We'll use our penknives."

"All right--after you."

Stover cautiously drew in his first puff. To his surprise nothing
immediate happened.

"How is it?" said McCarty.

"Terrific!"

"Do you inhale?"

"Sometimes," said Stover, with an inconsequential wave of his hand.

This gave McCarty his opening; besides, he was deceived by Stover's
complete manner.

"Dink, I'm afraid you're smoking too much," he said
earnestly, puffing on his cigar.

"Oh, no," said Dink, immensely flattered by this undeserved accusation
from McCarty, who smoked forty-five-cent cigars.

"Yes, you are. I know it. Trouble with you is, old boy, you never do
anything by halves. I know you."

"Oh, well," said Stover loftily.

"You're smoking too much, and that's not all, Dink. I--I've wanted to
have a chance at you for a long while, and now I'm going for you."

"Hello----"

"Now, lo