giggle.
But now, all of a sudden, Mom changed. She started to listen to Mr. Konkel’s long boring stories about how he solved the mystery of the missing decimal point, or how he caught a sneaky grocery clerk, red-handed, trying to rob him of two cents change. She let Mr. Konkel give her a box of candy, and one night she even went for a walk with him.
For once Lee wasn’t being much help, either. He hadn’t come up with any good ideas about Mom and Mr. Brighton, yet, and when Harry told him about Miss Clyde, all he said was that it might be a good thing if she would go some place else to board.
Harry already knew that, for Pete Squeaks! The problem was how to get her to go.
It seemed all in all as if things couldn’t get much worse.
A Midnight Visitor
M R. MAZZEECK STAYED AND stayed, and Harry got more and more nervous about him. On the evening of the eleventh day, Harry was feeling very tired and discouraged. Mr. Brighton had actually taken Miss Clyde out—that is, he was going somewhere and Miss Clyde had asked him for a lift downtown. So maybe they were together somewhere without Harry around to keep an eye on them.
All evening long Harry had been stuck in the living room with nothing at all to do. He hadn’t been able to leave because he’d had to watch Mom and Mr. Konkel. Mr. Konkel was teaching Mom to play chess. Chess was the only game that Mr. Konkel enjoyed playing, because, according to him, you had to play by a formula; and if you were a good enough player, the whole thing was predictable from the very beginning.
Harry climbed into bed that night wishing he were too worried to be tired, or too tired to be worried; instead of a whole lot of both. It was some time after he had finally worried himself to sleep that he woke up suddenly and completely. He had a very strong feeling that he’d heard something. Not traffic noise or a foghorn on the bay, but a small sound very close to his bed. He waited for a moment, holding his breath, and the noise came again. Someone was knocking on his door.
Harry fought down an urge to pull the covers up over his head and just lie there. Instead, he swallowed hard, slipped out of bed, and opened the door just a crack. He peeked out and found himself nose to nose with Mr. Mazzeeck.
“Ah,” Mr. Mazzeeck said. “There you are. I am so sorry to disturb your slumber, but I must see you tonight. It’s most urgent.”
Harry swallowed hard again and opened the door just a tiny bit wider. There was no sign of a sword. So after one or two more gulps he managed to say, “Sure, Mr. Mazzeeck. What can I do for you?”
“Come with me, please. We must go to my room.” He turned and started down the narrow third-floor stairs, and Harry grabbed his robe and followed. By the pale flickering light he could make out that Mr. Mazzeeck was not wearing the purple bathrobe that he’d had on the day Harry had brought him the cake. He was all dressed up in his funny-looking suit and overcoat. It was just about then that Harry noticed what was making the flickering light. The hall lights were out and Mr. Mazzeeck was lighting his way with—not a flashlight—not even a candle, which would have been strange enough—but with a lamp. The lamp seemed to be made of brass or bronze. It was oval-shaped and had a little pedestal, by which Mr. Mazzeeck was carrying it. A small flickering flame burned at one end of the oval.
Harry was so amazed and fascinated that he forgot to look where he was going, and just as they reached the bottom of the stairs he cracked his toe on a baluster. It was a bad bump—just about as painful as a stubbed toe can possibly be. But there was one good thing about it—it made Harry so darned mad that he forgot to be frightened. He just hobbled right into Mr. Mazzeeck’s room, sat down on the bed, and began rubbing his toe. Mr. Mazzeeck put the lamp on the bed table and sat down in a chair.
“Did you injure yourself?” he asked anxiously.
“Oh, no,” Harry
But now, all of a sudden, Mom changed. She started to listen to Mr. Konkel’s long boring stories about how he solved the mystery of the missing decimal point, or how he caught a sneaky grocery clerk, red-handed, trying to rob him of two cents change. She let Mr. Konkel give her a box of candy, and one night she even went for a walk with him.
For once Lee wasn’t being much help, either. He hadn’t come up with any good ideas about Mom and Mr. Brighton, yet, and when Harry told him about Miss Clyde, all he said was that it might be a good thing if she would go some place else to board.
Harry already knew that, for Pete Squeaks! The problem was how to get her to go.
It seemed all in all as if things couldn’t get much worse.
A Midnight Visitor
M R. MAZZEECK STAYED AND stayed, and Harry got more and more nervous about him. On the evening of the eleventh day, Harry was feeling very tired and discouraged. Mr. Brighton had actually taken Miss Clyde out—that is, he was going somewhere and Miss Clyde had asked him for a lift downtown. So maybe they were together somewhere without Harry around to keep an eye on them.
All evening long Harry had been stuck in the living room with nothing at all to do. He hadn’t been able to leave because he’d had to watch Mom and Mr. Konkel. Mr. Konkel was teaching Mom to play chess. Chess was the only game that Mr. Konkel enjoyed playing, because, according to him, you had to play by a formula; and if you were a good enough player, the whole thing was predictable from the very beginning.
Harry climbed into bed that night wishing he were too worried to be tired, or too tired to be worried; instead of a whole lot of both. It was some time after he had finally worried himself to sleep that he woke up suddenly and completely. He had a very strong feeling that he’d heard something. Not traffic noise or a foghorn on the bay, but a small sound very close to his bed. He waited for a moment, holding his breath, and the noise came again. Someone was knocking on his door.
Harry fought down an urge to pull the covers up over his head and just lie there. Instead, he swallowed hard, slipped out of bed, and opened the door just a crack. He peeked out and found himself nose to nose with Mr. Mazzeeck.
“Ah,” Mr. Mazzeeck said. “There you are. I am so sorry to disturb your slumber, but I must see you tonight. It’s most urgent.”
Harry swallowed hard again and opened the door just a tiny bit wider. There was no sign of a sword. So after one or two more gulps he managed to say, “Sure, Mr. Mazzeeck. What can I do for you?”
“Come with me, please. We must go to my room.” He turned and started down the narrow third-floor stairs, and Harry grabbed his robe and followed. By the pale flickering light he could make out that Mr. Mazzeeck was not wearing the purple bathrobe that he’d had on the day Harry had brought him the cake. He was all dressed up in his funny-looking suit and overcoat. It was just about then that Harry noticed what was making the flickering light. The hall lights were out and Mr. Mazzeeck was lighting his way with—not a flashlight—not even a candle, which would have been strange enough—but with a lamp. The lamp seemed to be made of brass or bronze. It was oval-shaped and had a little pedestal, by which Mr. Mazzeeck was carrying it. A small flickering flame burned at one end of the oval.
Harry was so amazed and fascinated that he forgot to look where he was going, and just as they reached the bottom of the stairs he cracked his toe on a baluster. It was a bad bump—just about as painful as a stubbed toe can possibly be. But there was one good thing about it—it made Harry so darned mad that he forgot to be frightened. He just hobbled right into Mr. Mazzeeck’s room, sat down on the bed, and began rubbing his toe. Mr. Mazzeeck put the lamp on the bed table and sat down in a chair.
“Did you injure yourself?” he asked anxiously.
“Oh, no,” Harry
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