He perceived that she had, like so many raconteurs, allowed her cigar to go out.
"Here's a match," he said, and courteously cupped his hands about its flame.

The pennygrab seemed to have become incombustible, and the match died futilely.

"That's my last match," he said.
"Maybe I better keep this till I get to the great city." But he would not have it so.
"You can light it from mine," and he brought the ends of the two penny grabs together.
"First thing you know you'll be dizzy," warned the moralist, Merle.
"Ho, I will not!" She laughed in scorn, and valiantly puffed on the noisome thing.

Thus stood Ben Blunt and the Wilbur twin, their faces together about this business of lighting up; and thus stood the absorbed Merle, the moral perfectionist, earnestly hoping his words of warning would presently become justified.

It did not seem right to him that others should smoke when it made him sick.
At last smoke issued from the contorted face of Ben Blunt, and some of this being swallowed, strangulation ensued.