Читать книгу Frank Merriwell, Jr., in Arizona; or, Clearing a Rival's Record онлайн

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“Splash! Cigarettes aren’t as bad as all that. Anyhow, when I’m in training I cut ’em out. You’re never in training and you never cut out that dope. If you can’t get it just when you want it, your strength is snuffed out like a fool candle. How long do you think you’ll last, going on as you are now, eh?”

“That’s the least of my worries,” was the placid retort.

With his shaking right hand, Shoup pressed the needle-like point of a small “hypoderm” into the flesh of his left arm. An instant his quivering finger toyed with the tiny piston, then drove it “home.” With a long sigh of relief, he sank back.

“I’ll feel like a king pretty soon,” said he, speaking with his eyes half closed. “You haven’t a notion how it gingers a fellow up. Say,” and the eyes opened wide, “why don’t you try it yourself?”

“Not on your life!” returned the other, in a sort of horror. “The sight of you, with one foot in the grave on account of that stuff, is enough for me.”

“Go on,” urged Shoup, his faded eyes brightening wonderfully. “Try for yourself and see how it puts fire into your veins, and peace and happiness into your heart. Jove! Already I’m beginning to feel as though I could run a hundred miles, and be as fresh at the end of the run as when I started.”