bone-white bed of the river.
Chapter 13: Mr. Deener Has a Fit
The house had a big front porch with white-painted chairs on it. Rose bushes covered with dark red flowers climbed on wooden trellises at both ends of the porch. Lamplight shone through the front windows, which were made of old, watery glass, just like Mrs. Owlswick’s window. Through them John could see a cheerful fire burning in a stone fireplace. Nearby, a table was set for dinner. A girl sat in a chair in front of the fire, sewing doll clothes. She must be Polly, the other of Mr. Deener’s “imaginary friends”. She looked just like Kimberly.
Ahab pushed in past all of them and headed for the fire, just as if he lived there. He wagged his tail at the girl as he went past, then curled up in front of the heath and went straight to sleep. The girl went over and patted him on the head. “What’s his name?” she asked.
“Ahab,” Danny said.
“It sounds like the name of a king,” she said.
“He behaves just like a king,” Mr. Deener said. “He was the scourge of the goblins out there on the road tonight. And this, by the way, is…” He gestured at John. “What was your name again?”
“John,” John said. “And this is my brother Danny.”
“I’m Polly,” she said, and she curtsied in an old fashioned way Her hair was shorter than Kimberly’s, and there was something else about her… Perhaps it was that she was dressed a little bit old-fashioned too, in a blue dress with lace. Her skin was pale, like a delicate china plate, and, maybe because of the strange, flickering light from the fireplace, it seemed to John that he could very nearly see through her.
“The soap gun was a great success,” said Aunt Flo.
Polly said, “I knew it would be,” and she kissed Mr. Deener on the cheek. He sat down in the chair that she had been sitting in.
Just then a woman who looked like an unhappy ghost walked into the room. She was round and short, like a barrel, and was dusty-white. Even her hair was white. She carried an enormous wooden spoon.
“I’ve spilt the flour,” she said.
“Bother the flour,” said Aunt Flo. “Scoop up what you can and sweep the rest into a box we can make cakes for the squirrels with any that’s got dirty.”
She wasn’t a ghost; she was just covered with flour. She wiped her face clean with her sleeve.
Mr. Deener looked worried all of a sudden. “Cakes for the
squirrels?”
he said. “What about
my
cakes? Do
I
get a cake?”
“You’ll get a dusty old clod,” said the woman, evidently still mad at having spilled the flour. But just then the smell of something baking – a pie, maybe, or a tray of cookies – came sailing out into the room, as if someone had opened an oven door.
Mr. Deener put his hand on his forehead and stood up. Then he moaned and sat back down, sinking low into his chair, so that his chin was pushed down into his chest and his eyes were squished into his cheeks again. “A dusty
clod,”
he said. “It’s what I deserve!”
“Best not to start him up, Mrs. Barlow,” Aunt Flo said to the flour woman. Polly put a hand on Mr. Deener’s shoulder. “You won’t have to eat clods,” she said to him. “I’ll find you something nice. We’ll find him something nice, won’t we?”
John said, “Of course we will.”
And Danny said, “Sure.”
“Cake?” Mr. Deener asked.
“Of
course
there’ll be cake,” said Aunt Flo.
“And pies, I don’t doubt?” Mr. Deener sat up straighter, cheering up at the idea of pies and cakes.
“He’s starting up!” cried Aunt Flo. “Catch him!”
Mrs. Barlow rolled her eyes and slapped the wooden spoon into her open hand, as if she were about to conk him on the head with it. Then she turned around and tramped away toward the kitchen.
Mr. Deener’s fingers drummed on the arms of his chair. His face was suddenly wild, like the face of a starving man looking in at a restaurant window. “Cookies!” he said. “And bread and cupcakes
Chapter 13: Mr. Deener Has a Fit
The house had a big front porch with white-painted chairs on it. Rose bushes covered with dark red flowers climbed on wooden trellises at both ends of the porch. Lamplight shone through the front windows, which were made of old, watery glass, just like Mrs. Owlswick’s window. Through them John could see a cheerful fire burning in a stone fireplace. Nearby, a table was set for dinner. A girl sat in a chair in front of the fire, sewing doll clothes. She must be Polly, the other of Mr. Deener’s “imaginary friends”. She looked just like Kimberly.
Ahab pushed in past all of them and headed for the fire, just as if he lived there. He wagged his tail at the girl as he went past, then curled up in front of the heath and went straight to sleep. The girl went over and patted him on the head. “What’s his name?” she asked.
“Ahab,” Danny said.
“It sounds like the name of a king,” she said.
“He behaves just like a king,” Mr. Deener said. “He was the scourge of the goblins out there on the road tonight. And this, by the way, is…” He gestured at John. “What was your name again?”
“John,” John said. “And this is my brother Danny.”
“I’m Polly,” she said, and she curtsied in an old fashioned way Her hair was shorter than Kimberly’s, and there was something else about her… Perhaps it was that she was dressed a little bit old-fashioned too, in a blue dress with lace. Her skin was pale, like a delicate china plate, and, maybe because of the strange, flickering light from the fireplace, it seemed to John that he could very nearly see through her.
“The soap gun was a great success,” said Aunt Flo.
Polly said, “I knew it would be,” and she kissed Mr. Deener on the cheek. He sat down in the chair that she had been sitting in.
Just then a woman who looked like an unhappy ghost walked into the room. She was round and short, like a barrel, and was dusty-white. Even her hair was white. She carried an enormous wooden spoon.
“I’ve spilt the flour,” she said.
“Bother the flour,” said Aunt Flo. “Scoop up what you can and sweep the rest into a box we can make cakes for the squirrels with any that’s got dirty.”
She wasn’t a ghost; she was just covered with flour. She wiped her face clean with her sleeve.
Mr. Deener looked worried all of a sudden. “Cakes for the
squirrels?”
he said. “What about
my
cakes? Do
I
get a cake?”
“You’ll get a dusty old clod,” said the woman, evidently still mad at having spilled the flour. But just then the smell of something baking – a pie, maybe, or a tray of cookies – came sailing out into the room, as if someone had opened an oven door.
Mr. Deener put his hand on his forehead and stood up. Then he moaned and sat back down, sinking low into his chair, so that his chin was pushed down into his chest and his eyes were squished into his cheeks again. “A dusty
clod,”
he said. “It’s what I deserve!”
“Best not to start him up, Mrs. Barlow,” Aunt Flo said to the flour woman. Polly put a hand on Mr. Deener’s shoulder. “You won’t have to eat clods,” she said to him. “I’ll find you something nice. We’ll find him something nice, won’t we?”
John said, “Of course we will.”
And Danny said, “Sure.”
“Cake?” Mr. Deener asked.
“Of
course
there’ll be cake,” said Aunt Flo.
“And pies, I don’t doubt?” Mr. Deener sat up straighter, cheering up at the idea of pies and cakes.
“He’s starting up!” cried Aunt Flo. “Catch him!”
Mrs. Barlow rolled her eyes and slapped the wooden spoon into her open hand, as if she were about to conk him on the head with it. Then she turned around and tramped away toward the kitchen.
Mr. Deener’s fingers drummed on the arms of his chair. His face was suddenly wild, like the face of a starving man looking in at a restaurant window. “Cookies!” he said. “And bread and cupcakes
Similar Books
