The Ghost Belonged to Me by Richard Peck Page B

Hackett stood up in the seat and then toppled out over the door, drunk as a skunk.

Chapter Nine
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    T he day just seemed to go downhill after that and continued to do so long after dark. Mother shrieked out that she’d have the law on whoever had torn up her flowers, before she saw it was Tom. He was face down among the begonias for a time and not identifiable.
    His mother recognized his car, though, and left at high speed, taking Mr. Hackett senior with her. Others stayed on, interested to know what would happen next.
    Tom was shortly on his feet and weaving toward the pavilion. He got there just as Cousin Elvera was telling Mrs. Hochhuth she had not seen so many well-dressed people in one place since the St. Louis World’s Fair. Then Tom was before her, flush-faced, with loose earth caking his lapels.
    â€œSay, listen, Mrs. Schumate,” he bawled at her, “it’s my opinion that whatever pink punch you’re serving would profit by a little sparking up!” While he spoke, he was unscrewing the lid off a silver hip flask and pouring whiskey into the punchbowl with an unsteady hand.
    There for a minute you could have made a photograph because nobody moved. Then Cousin Elvera screamed out, “You have poisoned my punch, and I don’t care if you are Tom Hackett, I will not have it adulterated!” Or words to that effect.
    She grasped the bowl in both hands and tipped it forward, and the punch cascaded right down Tom Hackett from his vest to his shoetops. Then Cousin Elvera fell back, and the bird on her hat took a dip.
    â€œThings are picking up,” Lowell said to me. “Is that the Hackett dude?”
    â€œWhere is my sweet—my sweet—has anybody seen Lucille?” Tom yelled out, stumbling in a circle with his wet trousers clinging to his legs.
    Lucille was up on the porch with her Mother’s arms wrapped tight around her, and both were weeping copiously. Lucille had abandoned her bouquet on the porch rail, and it toppled into the snowball bushes, no doubt catching Blossom square on the head.
    When Tom could focus on Lucille, he started in her direction. The crowd made way for him. It was then that Lowell Seaforth went into action. He strode up to Tom and took him by the arm. “Say, listen,” said Tom. “You are asking for a flat nose or worse—do you know who I am?”
    â€œYes,” said Lowell, “a common drunk,” which brought forth a general gasp.
    â€œTurn loose of me,” Tom bellowed, “because I am going to my belov—my belov—I’m going up to greet Lucille.”
    â€œYou won’t be insulting any more ladies today,” Lowell said in a voice that carried right up to the porch. Then he put a hammerlock on Tom’s arm and marched him over to the Crane-Simplex which was axle-deep in the flowerbed. The crowd followed. He pushed Tom into the back seat where he seemed to pass out at once, though I think personally that he was playing possum. “Tell me where this boozer lives, and I’ll drive him home,” said Lowell. And after considerable maneuvering, Lowell got the Crane-Simplex out of its burial ground and spun off down the lane.
    He had not turned into Pine Street, though, before Mother was asking who he was. When she learned he was a reporter sent to write up the story of the party, she forgot herself completely, shouting out, “We are publicly shamed and finished in Bluff City!”
    Dispatching Tom Hackett so stylishly was enough to make anybody an admirer of Lowell Seaforth. But what he wrote up for the next day’s newspaper was another star in his crown. Though a good deal happened before the next day’s Pantagraph even went to press, I’ll put in Lowell’s article right here where it fits best:
    MISS ARMSWORTH BOWS TO SOCIETY
    Mr. and Mrs. Joe Armsworth and son Alexander were at home to their numerous friends yesterday afternoon. The lawn party