Mickey opened his lips, and showed that his brain was working by shutting them abruptly on something that seemed very much as if it had started to be: "Sure!"
"Is that so?" he substituted.
"Yes, I'm in the sweat box," admitted Douglas.
"And it's uncomfortable and weakening. What's the first thing we must do to get you out?"
"What I'm facing now is the prospect that there's no way for me to get out, or for my friends to get me out," admitted Douglas. "I wish I had been plowing corn."
The boy's eyes were gleaming. He was stepping from one foot to the other as if the floor burned him.
"Gosh, we must saw wood!" he cried. "You go on and tell me. I been up against a lot of things. Maybe I can think up something. Honest, maybe I can!"
"No Mickey, there's nothing you or any one can do. A miracle is required now, and miracles have ceased."
"Oh I don't know!" exclaimed Mickey. "Look how they been happening to me and Lily right along. I can't see why one mightn't be performed for you just as well. I wish you wouldn't waste so much time! I wish you hadn't spent an hour fooling with what I was telling you; that would keep. I wish you'd give me a job, and let me get busy."
Douglas Bruce smiled forlornly.