“Yes, but it seems pretty small when you know you can’t get out of it!”
“By the way, Molly,” asked The Fungus, “did you ever dream what had become of Ned’s money?” Molly’s face fell and she sighed.
“N-no, not exactly. I tried three times, too. The first time—that was Sunday night, you know—I did dream something but I couldn’t quite remember it in the morning.” She wrinkled her forehead. “It was something, though, about apples; and Cal was in it, too. But I don’t seem to remember dreaming about the money.”
“Funny you should have dreamed of apples,” laughed Sandy.
“Not half as funny as dreaming about Cal,” said Hoop. “What you had was a nightmare, Molly.”
“Produced by too many pippins,” added The Fungus.
“I’m going to try again,” she said cheerfully. “I’m sure that was a perfectly good dream—if I only could have remembered it.”
“Sure,” agreed Ned soothingly. “Like the Irishman’s horse. It was a perfectly good horse, only it was dead.”