But Max read right on, for just then the man-of-war lurched over on its side as if it was getting ready to sink.
In his excitement Max forgot all about what he was doing and twisted and bent the book back, cover to cover.
“Stop—quick—oh! oh! It hurts! You have broken my back—broken my back! Oh!—oh!” cried the book.
Suddenly Max woke up and saw what he had done—but it was too late. He had broken the glue and stitches apart and the covers hung limp.
Just then his mother came in.
“Look, mother—see what I have done to Tom Brown’s book,” he confessed. “I am so sorry. It is such a good book. Can’t we glue it together again?”
“No,” said his mother, “it is ruined. Glue may help, but it will never be the same book.”
“Oh, I am so sorry!” said Max.
“Yes, Max, but being sorry will not make this book as good as it was when you borrowed it.”
“I will make it right with Tom, mother. I will take my birthday money to buy him a new one.”