with listening. He said: “Why? What would I want to do anything to the boat for? What makes you think I did?”
“Didn’t you, now? Honest?”
“You're crazy. I never hurt—I never was down there except when you came tagging down there, that morning. What would I want to do anything to it, for?” They lay motionless, a kind of tenseness. He said, suddenly: “Did you tell her I did something to it?”
“Aw, don’t be a goof. I’m not going to tell on you.”
“You're damn right you won’t. I never did anything to it.”
“All right, all right: I’m not going to tell if you haven’t got guts to. You're yellow, Josh,” she told him calmly.
“Look here, I told you that if you wanted to stay in here, you’d have to keep quiet, didn’t I? Shut up, then. Or get out.”
“Didn’t you break that boat, honest?”
“No, I told you. Now, you shut up or get out of here.”
They lay quiet for a time. After a while she moved carefully, turning onto her belly by degrees. She lay still again for a time, then she raised her head. He seemed to be asleep, so she lowered her head and relaxed her muscles, spreading her arms and legs to where the sheet was still cool.
“I’m glad we're going to-morrow,” she murmured, as though to herself. “I’ll like to ride on the train. And mountains again. I love mountains, all blue and . . . blue. . . . We’ll be seeing mountains day after to-morrow. Little towns on ’em that don’t smell like people eating all the time . . . and mountains. . .”
“No mountains between here and Chicago,” her brother said gruffly. “Shut up.”
“Yes, there are.” She raised herself to her elbow. “There are some. I saw some coming down here.”
