“No, what is it?” I said. “My shirt fell in the water and we haven’t got any matches,” he said. “So what good is the fish? I’ve been trying to tell you that for five minutes.” I didn’t say anything, I just lay down on the ground. The rest of them did the same. “Follow your leader,” Garry groaned. “This is too much,” I said; “let me die in peace.” “What’s the matter?” Hervey asked, climbing out of the water with the precious fish. “Oh nothing,” I said, “except Pee-wee’s shirt fell in the water over at the other end of the bridge and we haven’t got any matches. Don’t worry, they’ll find our bodies here; lie down, it’s all over. Pee-wee wins.” So there we all lay sprawled on the ground, the kid sitting up watching us. “We did our best to eat and live,” I said, “but the West Shore Railroad and turntables and sign posts and drawbridges and wooden ducks were too much for us. Come on, I’m going to die, follow your leader.” “There’s a way to kindle a fire without a match,” the kid said. “Yes, and it sounds nice in the handbook too. But did you ever try it?” I asked him. “Don’t talk to me. Tell my patrol that my last thoughts were of them. Tell Westy Martin he can have my dessert at dinner; tell him to think of me while he’s eating.” All of a sudden somebody shouted, “A sail! A sail! A sail on the horizon!” “Same old horizon,” I said. “What kind of a sale is it now?” All of a sudden up jumped Pee-wee. “Good turns are like chickens,” he said. “Don’t talk about chickens,” I told him; “have a heart.” “They come home to roast,” he said. “When we haven’t any matches?” I said. “That’s very kind of them. Can’t you let me die in peace?” “It’s the Italian with the donkey,” he said; “the donkey we pulled off the railroad track with the gas engine, and he’s smoking a pipe——” “Who? The donkey?” I asked him. “The man,” Pee-wee said; “so he must have matches. Hurrah!” We all sat up at once and stared up the road. And, oh boy, as sure as you live, there was that old scissors-grinding wagon coming toward us, and the donkey should have been arrested for speeding, because he was going about two inches a year. Up on the seat sat our Italian friend, smoking a pipe. “Hey, Tony!” I shouted. “Have you got any matches or sandwiches, or sawdust or spaghetti or old scissors or pieces of leather or rye bread or peanuts or steel nuts or pie or anything else we can eat? We’re starving.” “Hey, boss, how you do?” he shouted. He was smiling all over. CHAPTER XIX WE EAT That man had a lot of lunch, pickles and bologna and a pail of spaghetti and bread and everything, and there was only one thing that we didn’t like about it, and that was that he had already eaten it about an hour before. So it didn’t do us much good. It only made us hungrier when he told us about it. He said, “Badda luck, hey, Boss? Spagett, ah, what d’you call it, _nice_. You lika, huh?”