“Smoke it!” gruffed Leon.

“I—–­I don’t wanter.”

“Smoke it!”

“I—–­I can’t,” pleaded Alf Drew, the ghastly pallor of his face bearing out his assertion.

“You smoke that pipe, or I’ll-----”

“You can kill me, if you wanter,” gasped, Alf, feeling far more ill than he had ever felt in his life before.  “I don’t care—–­but I won’t smoke that pipe.  There!”

He flung it violently to the ground, smashing the pipe.

“You little-----” began the cook, making a leap after the youngster.

But Alf, his sense of self-preservation still being strong, fled with more speed than might have been looked for in one so ill.

Tom Reade, passing a clump of bushes, and hearing low moans, stopped to investigate.  He found the little cigarette fiend stretched out on the ground, his face drawn and pale.

“What on earth is the matter, mosquito?” inquired Reade, with more sympathy than his form of speech attested.

“Oh, dear!” wailed Alf.

“So I gathered,” said Tom dryly.  “But who got behind you and scared you in that fashion?”

“O-o-oh, dear!”

“You said that before; but what’s up?”

“At first I was afraid I was going to die,” Alf declared tremulously.

“Yes?”

“And now I’m afraid I won’t die!”

Alf sat up shivering convulsively.

“Now, Alf,” Tom pursued, “tell me just what happened.”

By degrees the young engineer extracted the information that he was after.  Bit by bit Alf told the tale, interspersing his story with dismal groans.

“I always told you, Alf, that smoking would do you up if you ever tackled it,” Reade said gravely.

“But I have smoked for a year,” Alf protested.

“Oh, no,” Tom contradicted him.  “The use of cigarettes isn’t smoking.  It’s just mere freshness on the part of a small boy.  But smoking—–­that’s a different matter, as you’ve found out.  Now, Alf, I hope you’ve learned a needed lesson, and that after this you’ll let tobacco alone.  While you’re about it you might as well quit cigarettes, too.  But I’m going to change your job.  Don’t go back to the cook.  Instead, report to me in about an hour.”

Then Tom strode forward.  After he had left young Drew there was an ominous flash in the young engineer’s eyes.  He strode into camp and went straight to the cook’s shack.

“Leon,” Tom demanded, “what have you been doing to that poor little shrimp of a helper?”

The cook turned around, grinning.

“I’ve been teaching him something about smoking,” the man admitted.

“So I’ve heard,” said Tom.  “That’s why I’ve dropped in here—–­to tell you what I think about it.”

“If you’re going to get cranky,” warned the cook, angrily, “you needn’t take the trouble.”