“Not a drop,” says Mark. “It’s all downstairs.”
“Hum!” says I, sort of significant.
“Go on and hum,” says Mark. “It’s my fault, all right, but I guess it ain’t s-s-serious. The lake’s right below us.”
“And when we get thirsty we can go to look at it, I suppose,” I says, as sarcastic as I could get.
“If you’re thirsty,” says Mark, “s’pose you f-f-find some way to get water. It’s near enough.”
“We can let down a bucket with a rope,” I says, for that idea just popped into my head. I should have thought of it before.
“Go ahead,” says Mark.
I went to get a bucket, but not a bucket could I find. I hunted high and low and crossways and sideways, but not a sign of a bucket was there. Not a bucket nor a pail nor anything that I could see that would hold water. I went back and told Mark so.
“Huh!” says he. “I could have told you. And if you’d f-f-found a bucket there wouldn’t have been any rope.”
“How long can a man live without water?” says I, getting all-fired thirsty all at once.