There were whispers—two small and soft voices. They made a sleepy music.
"He's more yours than mine," said one.
"You're more his than I am," said the other.
"You're older than I am," said the first.
"You're stronger than I am," said the second.
"Let's spin for it," said the first voice, and there was a humming sound ending in a little tinkling fall.
"That settles it," said the second voice—"here?"
"And when?"
"Three's a good number."
Then everything was very quiet, and sleep wrapped Dickie like a soft cloak. When he awoke his eyelids no longer felt heavy, so he opened them. "That was a rum dream," he told himself, as he blinked in broad daylight.