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           Jonasdidn’tsayanythingrightaway.Helithispipeandpuffedit,noddinghisheadasifheknewbeforeheasked,thatsomethingwaswrong.

           "Tom?"hesaid.

           "It’smybrother,"saidTom."It’sDoug."

           Mr.Jonaslookedupatthehouse.

           "He’ssick,"saidTom."He’sdying!"

           "Oh,now,thatcan’tbeso,"saidMr.Jonas,scowlingaroundattheveryrealworldwherenothingthatvaguelylookedlikedeathcouldbefoundonthisquietday.

           "He’sdying,"saidTom."Andthedoctordoesn’tknowwhat’swrong.Theheat,hesaid,nothingbuttheheat.Canthatbe,Mr.Jonas?Cantheheatkillpeople,eveninadarkroom?"

           "Well,"saidMr.Jonasandstopped.

           ForTomwascryingnow.

           "IalwaysthoughtIhatedhim...that’swhatIthought...wefighthalfthetime...IguessIdidhatehim...sometimes...butnow...now.Oh,Mr.Jonas,ifonly..."

           "Ifonlywhat,boy?"

           "Ifonlyyouhadsomethinginthiswagonwouldhelp.SomethingIcouldpickandtakeupstairsandmakehimokay."

           Tomcriedagain.

           Mr.JonastookouthisredbandannahandkerchiefandhandedittoTom.Tomwipedhisnoseandeyeswiththehandkerchief.

           "It’sbeenatoughsummer,"Tomsaid."LotsofthingshavehappenedtoDoug."

           "Tellmeaboutthem,"saidthejunkman.

           "Well,"saidTom,gaspingforbreath,notquitedonecryingyet,"helosthisbestaggieforone,arealbeaut.Andontopofthatsomebodystolehiscatcher’smitt,itcostadollarninety-five.