And if it's good evidence I'd like to submit the fact that within' five minutes after I'd rolled into my humble little white iron cot out on the sleepin' porch I was dead to the world. Could I have done that if I'd had on my mind a fiendish plot against the peace and safety of the only real aunt we have in the fam'ly? I ask you.
Seemed like I'd been asleep for hours and hours, and I believe I was dreamin' that I was being serenaded by a drum corps and that the bass drummer was mistakin' me for the drum and thumpin' me on the ribs, when I woke up and found Vee proddin' me from the next cot.
"Torchy!" she's sayin'. "Is that rain?"
"Eh?" says I. "No, that's the drum corps."
"What?" says she. "Don't be silly. It sounds like rain."
"Rain nothing," says I, rubbin' my eyes open. "Why, the moon's shining and—but, it does sound like water drippin'."
"Drippin!" says Vee. "It's just pouring down somewhere. But where, Torchy?"
"Give it up," says I. "That is, unless it could be that blessed tank——"
"That's it!" says Vee. "The tank! But—but just where is it?"
"Why," says I, "it's in the attic over—over—Oh, goodnight!" I groans.