"Jack?"
"Is that you, Jill?"
"I--suppose--so. Is it you, Jack?"
"Yes. Are you dead?"
"I don't know. Are you?"
"I guess I must be if you are. How awfully dark it is."
"Awfully dark! It must have been the comet."
"Yes; did you get much hurt?"
"Not much--I say, Jack?"
"What?"
"It is the judgment day."
Jill broke up, so did I; we lay as still as we could. If it were the
judgment day--"Jill!" said I.
"Oh, dear me!" sobbed Jill.
We were both crying by that time, and I don't feel ashamed to own up,
either.
"If I'd known," said I, "that the day of judgment was coming on the
twelfth of August, I wouldn't have been so mean about that jack-knife of
yours with the notch in it."
"And I wouldn't have eaten your luncheon that day last winter when I got
mad at you," said Jill.
"Nor we wouldn't have cheated mother about smoking, vacations," said I.
"I'd never have played with the Bailey boys out behind the barn," said
Jill.
"I wonder where the comet went to?" said I.
"'Whether we shall be plunged into,'" quoted Jill, in a horrible
whisper, from that dreadful newspaper, "'shall be plunged into a wild
vortex of angry space--or suffocated with noxious gases--or scorched to
a helpless crisp--or blasted--'"
"When do you think they will come after us?" I interrupted Jill.
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