called it "Simpson," but he adored the thing and made it sleep
beside him in the crib every night. But that was when he was three,
and "Simpson" had been for ages on the top shelf where we keep the
toys that we think we'll play with again sometime before we're
really grown up. We never have done it yet, but there are certain
ones that we couldn't possibly give away, not even to the
Deservingest poor children.

So when Greg said that, in a tired, far-off sort of way, it did
frighten me, because I _had_ heard of people dying when they were
ravingly delirious. Greg wasn't raving exactly, but it was almost
worse, because his voice was so small and different from his own
dear usual one. When I told him I couldn't get Simpson I tried to
make my voice sound soft and cooey like Mother's when she's sorry,
but it went up into a queer squeak instead, and I couldn't finish
somehow. Greg kept saying, "Simpson;--please--" and crying to
himself.

I heard Jerry feeling around in the dark and then the click of his
knife opening. I couldn't think what he was doing, but after quite a
long time he pushed something into my hand and said:

"Does that feel anything like it?"

"Like what?" I said, but the next minute I knew.

It _did_ feel like Simpson--soft and flannelly, with a round, bumpy
sort of head at one end.

"Oh, how did you do it!" I said. "Oh, Jerry, you brick!"