"Oh, Finch, please come in. Don't leave me alone! Just come and talk for a little while. Just a minute, please."
Finch came in and sat down on the foot of the bed. He took a lone, somewhat disheveled cigarette wrapped in silver paper from his pocket, unwrapped and lighted it.
Wake watched him, the strained look of loneliness passing from his little face.
"Give me a puff or two," he begged, "just a few puffs, please, Finch."
"No," growled Finch, "you'll make yourself sick. You're not allowed."
"Neither are you."
"Yes, I am."
"Well, not many."
"You don't call this many, do you?"
"I've seen you twice, no—three times before to-day."
Finch raised his voice. "You see a darned sight too much."
"Why, I'd never tell on you, Finch." Wake's tone was aggrieved. "I only want one little puff."
With a growl, Finch took the cigarette from his own lips and stuck it between his small brother's. "Now, then," he said, "make the best of your time."
Wake inhaled deeply, luxuriously, his eyes beaming at Finch through the smoke. He exhaled. Again, again. Then he returned the cigarette to its owner, still more battered and very moist. Finch looked at it doubtfully a moment, and then put it back philosophically into his own mouth. He felt happier. He was glad after all that Wake had called him. Poor little devil, he had his own troubles.
The darkness pouring into the room from the strange, dreamlike world outside had a liberating effect on the minds of the two boys. The tiny light of the candle,
