"Nothing will happen," he said. "Nothing can."
"What are you thinking of?" The Rat gulped, because his breath had not quite come back. "Why will nothing happen?"
"Because—" the boy spoke in an almost matter-of-fact tone—in quite an unexalted tone at all events, "you see I can always make a strong call, as I did tonight."
"Did you shout?" The Rat asked. "I didn't know you shouted."
"I didn't. I said nothing aloud. But I—the myself that is in me," Marco touched himself on the breast, "called out, 'Help! Help!' with all its strength. And help came."
The Rat regarded him dubiously.
"What did it call to?" he asked.
"To the Power—to the Strength-place—to the Thought that does things. The Buddhist hermit, who told my father about it, called it 'The Thought that thought the World.'"
A reluctant suspicion betrayed itself in The Rat's eyes.
"Do you mean you prayed?" he inquired, with a slight touch of disfavor.