Her look at Jury was very nearly inconsolable. âThatâs for remembrance.â
7
J ames Carlton Farraday was tired of being kidnapped.
He did not know who he had been kidnapped by, or where he had been kidnapped to, or what he had been kidnapped for.
At first, he had not minded, but now he was bored. He was tired of the same roomâa little one way up high like a garret. His food was delivered on a tray slipped through an oblong that had been cut into the door. Probably he was in a tower, although there were no rats. There was a cat, though. It had determinedly squeezed through the opening in the door. It probably wanted to see what it was like, being kidnapped. The cat, a gray one with white paws, had curled up on the foot of the iron cot and gone to sleep. James Carlton shared his food with it.
The food was all right, but he would have preferred bread and water, at least for a couple of days. He didnât think it quite fitting that he be served Jell-O (or whatever they called it in England) out of a little tin mold with a rose design on top. He himself hated Jell-O, but the gray cat loved it and licked it all up. The rest of the food was not bad, even if its method of delivery was a little unconventional. Not at all like his old nurse bringing a tray to his room back home, bringing things like runny boiled egg and dry toast. Boy, was he glad to be rid of her.
James Carlton had read every book ever written (he supposed) on kidnappings of one sort or another. People stuck up in towers, or carted away to Devilâs Island, or thrown in dungeons, or captured by Zulu tribes, or lowered into viper pits, or stuffed into trunks of cars. He was obsessed with kidnapping because he was pretty sure that was what had happened to him and Penny years ago. And he wasnât even sure that it was J. C. Farraday who had done it. Actually, he thought not. J.C. did not seem tobe the sort. Amelia Blue, now, sheâd take anything not nailed down, and that included babies, only Amelia Blue wasnât around then. Probably he had looked so cute lying in his carriage outside the Sav-Mor, someone had just snatched him up and run off. He thought it pretty stupid of Pennyâwho was usually very smartâto believe that story about their mom having died of that strange disease. She hadnât, of course.
The police were still looking for him (and Penny too, he supposed) after all these years, though they had certainly kept it quiet. His real mother and father would never give up looking for him, he knew. One thing that had made it so hard for him to be found was because Amelia Blue and J.C. made him wear these big eyeglasses. When he was a baby the kidnappers must have dyed his hair. For he had seen the picture of his mother, and she had light brown hair like Penny.
James Carlton had been going along with all this in a good-humored way for years. He had never said a word about being kidnapped, or asked why they didnât let him go home. But now he was getting mad. To be kidnapped once was bad enough. Twice, and somebody better have a pretty good reason.
The gray cat was napping on his chest and he exhaled deeply. Inhaling and exhaling could make it go up and down. Finally, the cat got disgusted and jumped down.
Beyond thinking of ways to escape, there was nothing to do. Naturally, there were no pencils or pens in the room because of the danger of his writing notes and sending them out of the window for passersby to find and report to the police that there was a boy in the tower.
But James Carlton always carried the stub of a pencil in his sock, because he knew how important it was to have a writing implement. More important than a weapon, really. It was necessary for sending out SOSâs to the police, or for leaving messages behind when people moved their captives from place to place.
He had often toyed with the idea that if he did not decide to become a baseball player when he got older (his father, he was
7
J ames Carlton Farraday was tired of being kidnapped.
He did not know who he had been kidnapped by, or where he had been kidnapped to, or what he had been kidnapped for.
At first, he had not minded, but now he was bored. He was tired of the same roomâa little one way up high like a garret. His food was delivered on a tray slipped through an oblong that had been cut into the door. Probably he was in a tower, although there were no rats. There was a cat, though. It had determinedly squeezed through the opening in the door. It probably wanted to see what it was like, being kidnapped. The cat, a gray one with white paws, had curled up on the foot of the iron cot and gone to sleep. James Carlton shared his food with it.
The food was all right, but he would have preferred bread and water, at least for a couple of days. He didnât think it quite fitting that he be served Jell-O (or whatever they called it in England) out of a little tin mold with a rose design on top. He himself hated Jell-O, but the gray cat loved it and licked it all up. The rest of the food was not bad, even if its method of delivery was a little unconventional. Not at all like his old nurse bringing a tray to his room back home, bringing things like runny boiled egg and dry toast. Boy, was he glad to be rid of her.
James Carlton had read every book ever written (he supposed) on kidnappings of one sort or another. People stuck up in towers, or carted away to Devilâs Island, or thrown in dungeons, or captured by Zulu tribes, or lowered into viper pits, or stuffed into trunks of cars. He was obsessed with kidnapping because he was pretty sure that was what had happened to him and Penny years ago. And he wasnât even sure that it was J. C. Farraday who had done it. Actually, he thought not. J.C. did not seem tobe the sort. Amelia Blue, now, sheâd take anything not nailed down, and that included babies, only Amelia Blue wasnât around then. Probably he had looked so cute lying in his carriage outside the Sav-Mor, someone had just snatched him up and run off. He thought it pretty stupid of Pennyâwho was usually very smartâto believe that story about their mom having died of that strange disease. She hadnât, of course.
The police were still looking for him (and Penny too, he supposed) after all these years, though they had certainly kept it quiet. His real mother and father would never give up looking for him, he knew. One thing that had made it so hard for him to be found was because Amelia Blue and J.C. made him wear these big eyeglasses. When he was a baby the kidnappers must have dyed his hair. For he had seen the picture of his mother, and she had light brown hair like Penny.
James Carlton had been going along with all this in a good-humored way for years. He had never said a word about being kidnapped, or asked why they didnât let him go home. But now he was getting mad. To be kidnapped once was bad enough. Twice, and somebody better have a pretty good reason.
The gray cat was napping on his chest and he exhaled deeply. Inhaling and exhaling could make it go up and down. Finally, the cat got disgusted and jumped down.
Beyond thinking of ways to escape, there was nothing to do. Naturally, there were no pencils or pens in the room because of the danger of his writing notes and sending them out of the window for passersby to find and report to the police that there was a boy in the tower.
But James Carlton always carried the stub of a pencil in his sock, because he knew how important it was to have a writing implement. More important than a weapon, really. It was necessary for sending out SOSâs to the police, or for leaving messages behind when people moved their captives from place to place.
He had often toyed with the idea that if he did not decide to become a baseball player when he got older (his father, he was
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