“Why, we’d just dig ourselves in, and let the pipes run up through the sand to the air, and we’d lie there as comfortable as bugs in a rug and breathe.”
“I don’t s’pose,” says I, “anybody would stop to wonder what those pipes were sticking up for. Oh, no.”
“Anyhow,” says he, “we haven’t got them. And besides they’re going to start digging this way, and so they’d dig us out anyway. It wasn’t a very good scheme.”
“I wasn’t crazy about it when you mentioned it,” says I.
“Well,” says he, “you think of something now.”
“Me?” says I. “All I can think of is having a balloon come along and drop us a rope. But I haven’t seen a balloon around here anywheres.”
“There’s some way out of it,” he says. “There’s always a way out of everything. It just takes brains to get out of any kind of a fix.”
“There’s canned peas and tomatoes and corned beef, but I haven’t run onto a crate of brains in this pile,” says I.
“So far as I can see,” he says, “you never ran onto many brains anywhere.”
“There,” says I, “goes the first box. About seven minutes and we’re going to be answering questions there isn’t any healthy answer to.”