We must have had the worst of it."
It was queer that I cried then, because I hadn't felt at all like
crying when we thought that the cave would be flooded.
Greg had been quiet for so long that it frightened me suddenly, and
I groped after him to be sure that he was all right. I found his
hand, and I couldn't believe that it was really hot when ours were
so cold. His forehead was hot, too, and dry, in spite of his hair
being damp still from the rain. He curled his hand into mine and
said very clearly:
"Will you please bring me a drink of water?"
It was perfectly awful, because he said it so politely and very
carefully, as if he were trying not to bother somebody. And there
was no drink to give him. I thought of the people in stories who lie
on deserts and battle-fields burning in agonies of fever, but I
couldn't remember reading about anybody dying of fever on a rock in
the middle of the sea. I dipped my handkerchief in the pool just
beside me and laid it, all dripping, on Greg's forehead. I didn't
know whether it was a proper First Aid thing to do, but he seemed to
like it and was still again, holding my hand. Presently he said:
"Mother, why isn't there a drink?"
"This is awful, Chris," Jerry said.
Then I thought of the rain-pools. There were lots, of course, in the
hollows of the Monster, but we had nothing to scoop up the water
with.
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