I heard Jerry feeling around in the dark and then the click of his knife opening. I couldn’t think what he was doing, but after quite a long time he pushed something into my hand and said:
“Does that feel anything like it?”
“Like what?” I said, but the next minute I knew.
It did feel like Simpson—soft and flannelly, with a round, bumpy sort of head at one end.
“Oh, how did you do it!” I said. “Oh, Jerry, you brick!”
“I chopped a big piece out of your skirt,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind. I happened to have the string off the sandwich bundle in my pocket, and I squeezed up a head and tied it.”
Greg was a little frightened when Jerry leaned over him suddenly.
“It’s just me, Greg,” Jerry said; “just Jerry-o. Here’s Simpson, old lamb.”
I’d never heard Jerry’s voice at all like that before. I don’t know whether Greg really thought it was Simpson, but he took it and sighed—a long, quivery sort of sigh, the way very little children do when they’re asleep sometimes.
Then there was no sound at all but the different horrid noises that the Monster made.