Yet he must not sit there, either, with the cigar between his teeth, unlighted.
"Crooked as a dog's hind legs," snarled Lewis, biting viciously at his cigar.
He flicked the ashes from his cigar, nursing his knee with the other hand.
You kin imagine how that other feller's cigar tasted when he lighted it ag'in.
But this time the cigar and the punch seemed to fail of their ...