“You have,” says he. “Two long ones.”
“I just this minute laid down,” says I, but I got up just the same, and rubbed my eyes, and felt like a boiled owl. Catty curled up in the corner, and that was the end of him.
I never thought two hours could be so long, but they can. Just sit in the dark, all alone, scairt half stiff the way I was—do it for five minutes and see. Why, five minutes is a week long, and two hours is the best part of a year. I don’t see why it takes men a couple of months to build a house. If all hours are as long as mine were then, a dub carpenter could build a hotel in fifteen minutes.
It was lucky nothing happened. I could hear somebody walking around every little while, and thought it was a guard, but that was all. I woke Catty, and took another snooze myself, and then it was morning. Morning means breakfast, and I’m partial to breakfast. When I get up I want food, and if I don’t get food, why, I’m not so awful happy.
“Catty,” says I, “got a cup of coffee in your pocket?”
“Boys shouldn’t drink coffee,” says he. “It says so in the book.”
“All right. Give me a glass of milk and about twelve flapjacks and two or three fried cakes, and I’ll call it square.”
“Well,” says he, “I don’t see why we should starve when we’re almost buried in food.”
“Raw canned peas don’t strike me very hard for breakfast food,” says I.
“No, but there must be crackers or biscuit, or something like that, and maybe canned meat. I’ve heard there’s nothing like the juice of canned tomatoes for thirst.”