there was no drink to give him. I thought of the people in stories who lie on deserts and battle-fields burning in agonies of fever, but I could n't remember reading about anybody dying of fever on a rock in the middle of the sea. I dipped my handkerchief in the pool just beside me and laid it, all dripping, on Greg's forehead. I did n't know whether it was a proper First Aid thing to do, but he seemed to like it and was still again, holding my hand. Presently he said:
"Mother, why isn’t there a drink?"
"This is awful, Chris," Jerry said.
Then I thought of the rain-pools. There were lots, of course, in the hollows of the Monster, but we had nothing to scoop up the water with. Greg's forehead was just as hot as ever, and he thrashed about and hurt his shoulder and cried miserably.
I don't know how Jerry could have
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