So when Greg said that, in a tired, far-off sort of way, it did
frighten me, because I _had_ heard of people dying when they were
ravingly delirious. Greg wasn't raving exactly, but it was almost
worse, because his voice was so small and different from his own
dear usual one. When I told him I couldn't get Simpson I tried to
make my voice sound soft and cooey like Mother's when she's sorry,
but it went up into a queer squeak instead, and I couldn't finish
somehow. Greg kept saying, "Simpson;--please--" and crying to
himself.
I heard Jerry feeling around in the dark and then the click of his
knife opening. I couldn't think what he was doing, but after quite a
long time he pushed something into my hand and said:
"Does that feel anything like it?"
"Like what?" I said, but the next minute I knew.
It _did_ feel like Simpson--soft and flannelly, with a round, bumpy
sort of head at one end.
"Oh, how did you do it!" I said. "Oh, Jerry, you brick!"
"I chopped a big piece out of your skirt," he said. "I hope you
don't mind. I happened to have the string off the sandwich bundle in
my pocket, and I squeezed up a head and tied it."
Greg was a little frightened when Jerry leaned over him suddenly.
"It's just me, Greg," Jerry said; "just Jerry-o. Here's Simpson, old
lamb."
I'd never heard Jerry's voice at all like that before.
Pages:
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74