That seemed a good idea to both of them, and they spread the blankets out on the floor and sat down. Tom rattled open the metal box. Julian crackled open the paper bag. Soon the air was warmed with an odor of peanuts and salami and dill pickle, and there was a sound of crunching. In the darkness everything tasted perfectly delicious. "But salty," Julian objected. "Do you realize, Tom, that every single thing we brought is salty? Except the chocolate, and that always make you thirsty anyway." "Well, we counted on Joe and the root-beer. How could we know? I'm not thirsty yet, though, are you? If we don't think about it, maybe we won't be." "Maybe not." Julian agreed doubtfully. But the more he tried not to think about it, the more he thought about it. He could feel himself inventing his own thirstiness. "Doggone it, what do you suppose _happened_ to Joe?" "I don't know. Fell asleep maybe, but there's no use worrying," Tom said philosophically. He was clanging things back into the tin box. "There's plenty left over for a snack later on if we need it." He yawned a loud, satisfied yawn. "Maybe we should sleep for a while." "All right," Julian said, thinking about thirstiness; and they each stretched out on a blanket--it was much too warm for covers--and were quiet for nearly two minutes. "Ow," Tom complained. "I never knew my bones had so many corners." "You think _you_ have troubles. You've got good natural padding, and I haven't. This is the hardest floor I ever felt." "Well, we'll just have to get used to it. Soldiers do. Marines do." "Rugs do," added Julian. "I don't mind the hardness of the floor so much, but I'm getting so thirsty I may have to drink the A.P. Decoction!" Tom laughed. "Good thing you brought it anyway; here come the mosquitoes." It was true. Somewhere just above their heads there was a sound like the wailing of the tiniest violin imaginable. Then another. Hurriedly, Julian slapped his face and arms with Mrs. Cheever's famous Anti-Pest Decoction and handed the bottle to Tom. The room was suddenly permeated with an extraordinary smell, and because of it the sound of little violins diminished and was gone. There was another distant shuddering in the air. "It _is_ thunder, Jule," Tom said accusingly. "I told you it was." "It may never get here, though. It's a long way away." "It will get here," Tom pronounced gloomily. "Just wait and see." Outside, the wind was picking up; the trees churned under it, and all the reeds of Gone-Away hissed and rustled as they bowed. "Sh-h! What's _that_!" whispered Tom, clutching Julian's arm. "Hey, quit _grabbing_ me like that; it startles me. What's _what_?" "Listen--" _Clap_ came the sound; then a sort of jiggle and squeak; then _clap_ again. "Oh, that. It's only a broken shutter banging against the house. I think." "You hope."