With a sniff of scorn Ferrers tramped away.

“I guess, perhaps, what you need, Drew is a friend,” remarked Tom, resting a hand on the boy’s nearer shoulder.  “Make up your mind that you can’t have a cigarette this afternoon, take a walk with me, in this fresh air and the good old sunshine.  Let’s drop all talk of cigarettes, and give a little thought to brains and a strong body.  They don’t flourish where you find boys smoking cigarettes.  Come along!  I’m going to show you how to step out right, and just how to breathe like a human being.  Let’s try it.”

Tom had almost to drag the boy, to make him start.  But Reade had no intention of hectoring the, dough-faced little fellow.

It was rough ground along this mountain trail in the Indian Smoke Range of mountains, in Nevada.  Soon the pulses of both began to beat more heavily.  Tom took in great breaths of the life-giving air, but Alf was soon panting.

“Let’s stop, now,” proposed Tom, in a kindly voice.  “After you’ve rested a couple of minutes I’m going to show you how to breathe right and fill your lungs with air.”

Soon they were trying this most sensible “stunt.”  Alf, however, didn’t succeed very well.  Whenever he tried hard it set him to coughing.

“You see, it’s mostly due to the cigarettes,” said Tom gravely.  “Alf, you’ve simply got to turn over a new leaf.  You’re headed just right to have consumption.”

“Cigarettes don’t give a fellow consumption!” retorted the younger boy sullenly.

“I don’t believe they do,” Tom admitted, thoughtfully.  “Consumption is caused by germs, I’ve heard.  But germs take hold best in a weakened part of the body, and your lungs, Alf, are weak enough for any germ to find a good place to lodge.  What you’ve got to do is to make your lungs so strong that they’ll resist germs.”

“You talk like a doctor!”

“No; I’m trying to talk like an athlete.  I used to be a half-way amateur athlete, Drew, and I’m still taking care of my body.  That’s why I’ve never allowed any white-papered little ‘coffin-nails’ to fool around me.  Bad as your lungs are, Alf, they’re not one whit worse than your nerves.  You’ll go to pieces if you find yourself under the least strain.  You’ll get to shivering and crying, if you don’t stop smoking cigarettes.”

“Don’t you believe it,” muttered the boy, sullenly.

“Alf,” smiled Tom, laying a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder, “you don’t know me yet.  You haven’t any idea how I can hang to a thing until I win.  I’m going to keep hammering at you until I make you throw your cigarettes away.”

“I’m never going to stop smoking ’em,” retorted Drew.  “There wouldn’t be any comfort in life if I stopped.”

“Is it as bad as that?” queried Tom, with ready sympathy.  “Then all the more reason for stopping.  Come; let’s finish our walk.”

“Say, I don’t want to go down and through that thick brush,” objected Alf Drew, slowing his steps.