But she was sobbing again. "I'm thirsty!" she lamented. "I'm thirsty! I'm thirsty! I'm thirsty!"
Presently he roused himself, and remembered his faithful Buckle. He summoned the latter now, speaking to him in that throaty, important voice which he used when issuing commands. "Mister Buckle," he said, "bring the young lady a lemon soda jus' chock-full o' ice."
"No! No!" Cis broke in petulantly. "Oh, that makes it all the harder to bear!—Oh, where's Mrs. Kukor? She knows something's wrong! Why hasn't she helped us?" She fell to weeping irritably.
At his wits' end, Johnnie racked his brain for something to tell her—something which might take her thoughts from her misery. But his own misery was now great, for the clothesline was cutting into his wrists and ankles; while across the front of his body, the edge of the table was pressing into him like the blade of a dull knife. "But I'll stand it," he promised himself. "And I'll try t' be cheerful, like the Handbook says."
However, there was no immediate need for his cheerfulness, for Cis had quieted. A few moments, and he heard her deep breathing. He smiled through the dark at her, happy to think that sleep had come to help her over the long night hours. As for himself, he could not sleep, weak as he was. His heart was sore because of what he had lost—his new, wonderful uniform, and all his dear, dear books. What were all these now? Just a bit of gray dust in the cooling stove! Gone! Gone forever!
Ah, but were they! The suit was. Yes, he would not be able ever again to wear that—not actually. But the books—? They were also destroyed, as completely as the khaki uniform. And yet—had Big Tom really done to them what he wanted to do? Had he wiped them out?
No!
And as Johnnie answered himself thus, he realized the truth of a certain statement which Father Pat had once made to him: "The only possessions in this world that can't be taken away from ye, lad dear, 're the thoughts, the ideas, the knowledge that ye've got in yer brain." And along with his sudden understanding of this there came a sense of joyous wonder, and a feeling of utter triumph. His precious volumes were burned. True enough. Their covers, their pictures, their good-smelling leaves, these were ashes. But—what was in each book had not been wiped out! No! The longshoreman had not been able to rob Johnnie of the thoughts, the ideas, the knowledge which had been tied into those books with the printed letter!
"I got 'em yet, all the stories!" he cried to himself. "The 'stronomy, too! And the things in the Handbook! They're all in my brain!"
And the people of his books! They were not destroyed at all! Fire had not wiped them out! They were just as alive as ever! As he lay, stretched over the table edge, they took shape for him; and out of the black corners of the room, from behind the cupboard, the stove, and the chairs, they came trooping to him—Aladdin, the Sultan, the Princess Buddir al Buddoor, Jim Hawkins, Uncas, King Arthur, Long John Silver, Robinson Crusoe, Lincoln, Heywood, Elaine, Galahad, Friday, Alice, Sir Kay!