Taking Breath
That day it was one o’clock before John and Roger rowed across and went up to Dixon’s farm for the milk and a new supply of eggs and butter. It had been nearly seven in the morning before Susan had hurried them to bed in broad daylight. No alarm clock could have stirred them, and they had no alarm clock on Wild Cat Island. The camp was roused at last by Roger, who was waked, some time after noon, by a strong desire for breakfast.
“You can’t have breakfast till we’ve got the milk,” Susan had said, waking up to find the boy pulling at her, and saying, “I want something to eat.” She had given him a biscuit, but a biscuit does not go far.
Titty had waked with a great start just as Roger went out again. She had sat up suddenly, thinking she heard an owl, and that she was still watching by the camp fire. But on finding herself in the tent with Susan, and the hot sun pouring through the white canvas walls, she lay down again to pick up in her mind the threads of the night’s adventure.
Roger went back to the captain’s tent. The captain’s feet stuck up temptingly under his blanket. Roger took hold of one of them in both hands, blanket and all, and gave a tug. The foot jerked suddenly away, and John woke up.
“Susan says, ‘Go and fetch the milk,’ ” said Roger.
“I didn’t. I said we couldn’t have breakfast without it,” called Susan from the other tent.
John yawned. “Come on, then. Where are our towels?”