He cared little for cigars, but this was a challenge; the old boy couldn't get away with anything like that.

If he didn't want his cigars touched let him leave the box out in the open like a man.

Merton drew upon the lighted trophy, moistened and pasted back the wrapper that had broken when the end was bitten off, and took from the bottom of the delivery wagon the remains of a buggy whip that had been worn to half its length.

With this he now tickled the bony ridges of the horse.

Blows meant nothing to Dexter, but he could still be tickled into brief spurts of activity.