“Whistle,” Morry said.
With more directions, more hard breathing, more wetting of lips and tireless trailing of small, blunt finger, and then—eureka! there you were! But eureka was not what Jolly said.
“Bully for us!” he shouted. He felt thrilly with pride of conquest. “It’s easy enough finding things. What’s the matter with dictionaries!”
“Now read what it means, Jolly,—I mean, please. Don’t skip.”
“‘Rec-om-pense: An equi-va-lent received or re-turned for anything given, done, or suff-er-ed; comp-ens-a-tion.’”
“That all?—every speck?”
“Well, here’s another one that says ‘To make a-mends,’ if you like that one any better. Sounds like praying.”
“Oh,” sighed Morry, “how I’d like to know what equi-valent means!” but he did not ask the other to look it up. He sank back on his pillows and reasoned things out for himself the best way he could. “To make amends” he felt sure meant to make up. To make up for something given or suffered,—perhaps that was what a Rec-om-pense was. For something given or suffered—like legs, maybe? Limp, no-good-legs that wouldn’t go? Could there be a Rec-om-pense for those? Could anything ever “make up”?
“Supposing you hadn’t any legs, Jolly,—that would go?” he said, aloud, with disquieting suddenness. Jolly started, but nodded comprehendingly. He had not had any legs for a good many minutes; the telescoping process is numbing in the extreme.
“Do you think anything could ever Rec-om-pense—make up, you know? Especially if you suffered? Please don’t speak up quick,—think, Jolly.”