And yet I never have the heart to dissuade her, she seems to take such
delight in seeing me smoke one of the vile weeds some villain of a
tobacconist sold her as prime stuff.
Now this year I determined to be wise.
Accordingly I managed to slip out of the house and presented the box
with a "Merry Christmas" to Mike McGinnity who lives around the corner.
Then I bought a box of my favorites and smuggled it into the house,
feeling guilty, yet triumphant.
That night Clara, bless her heart, insisted on opening the package and
bringing me the first cigar, which she lighted with her own dear hands.
Then she watched me puff my satisfaction.
It was genuine, I tell you, and mentally I was patting myself on the
back.
"How do you like them, my dear?" she asked, anxiously.
"Prime--as good as any I've ever smoked," I replied, honestly.
[Illustration]
"I'm so glad, for you see I had Mr. Harvesthome pick them out for me.
They cost fifteen dollars for the box of fifty. But I do love to see you
enjoy a good cigar after dinner."
Well, what do you think of that?
Harvesthome is the best judge of cigars I know.
Every time I pass McGinnity he calls out blessings on my head for the
"illegant" box of cigars I gave him.
And I think Harvesthome suspects something.
That will cost me another box to keep him hushed up.
I guess those were about the most expensive common, everyday smokes I've
ever indulged in.
Next year I will bribe Clara to let me help her select the present.
But talking of smoking, I wonder whether it really has any effect on the
nerves, as the doctors claim.
Because, it's been my experience that some of the nerviest chaps among
the rising generation were boys who indulged in cigarettes.
Why, just last week I had occasion to go to a neighboring town down the
coast.
It was confusing to a total stranger, the streets ran at such queer
angles.
So I determined to seek a little assistance.
There came along a sallow youth, puffing away at a cigarette and looking
mighty important.