In the gathering twilight the two came upon the cemetery of Sleepy Hollow, and here, tired, hungry, and despondent, they sat down to rest.
"It's gettin' night," said Flukey drearily. "I wonder where we'll sleep?"
"Can't we squirm in this dead man's yard 'thout nobody seein' us?" asked Flea, casting her eyes over the graves. "Ye can't walk no more tonight. I ain't hungry, anyhow."
"Ye lie, Flea!" moaned Flukey. "Yer belly's as empty as Squeaky's or Snatchet's. I've got to get ye somethin' to eat."
Nevertheless, without resistance, he allowed her to help him through the large gate, and they struck off into the older part of the cemetery. All through the night they lay dozing in the presence of the dead, Squeaky tied by the leg to a tree, and Snatchet snuggled warmly between the two children. The dawning of day brought Flukey new anguish; for both knees were swollen, and he groaned as he turned over.
Flea was up instantly. "Be ye sick?"
"Only the twist in my legs. I wish it wasn't so cold. If the sun would only get warm!"
"We'll get to the good land today, Fluke," soothed Flea, "and ye can eat all ye want, and sleep with a pile of covers on—as big—as big as that there vault yonder."
"But we ain't in the good land yet, Flea," groaned Flukey, "and we're all hungry. I wish I could 'arn a nickel. If ye didn't love the pig so much, Flea, we could sell him. He's a growin' thinner and thinner every minute, and Snatchet be that starvin' he could eat another mut bigger'n himself."
The girl made no answer to this, but tucked Squeaky's pink nose under the blue-shirted arm and sat mute.