The Tunnel of Hugsy Goode by Eleanor Estes Page A

duuno," he said. You could tell he was glad it wasn't his mom had the cow horn, but mine.
    As we chipped away at the bricks in the miniature jungle of squash vines, I said, "Hugsy Goode was a prophet. He planted these vines that grow over this hidey hole. He spake the words that there is probably a tunnel under the Alley. This hidey hole that in olden Alley days was a jail is going to be the doorway into that tunnel."
    "It is complicating," said Tornid. And he said, "Copin, why are we trying to find the tunnel? It's going to take up all our time."
    I just stared at Tornid. I got out my map and studied it. He got out his. He was embarrassed he'd said a stupid thing. We scraped away some more with our chipping tools. A little hoppy toad hopped out and away.
    I said, "Your mom ... if she hears us chipping when she's in the cellar ... will think it is the return of that rat she saw once." And I said, "This is the way writers of history get the history they write, Tornid. They find bones, or something, and piece them together and name it whatever they think it is."
    "Do you think we'll find
bones
down there in the tunnel?...Cripes!" said Tornid.
    "Might," I said. "One day last year a bunch of kids were playing in the rubble where some old houses were being torn down—it was down near Brooklyn Bridge in the Heights. The workers had gone home, and these kids found a batch of skeletons, about forty of them. They left them intact and told the police. Now they're studying the whole bunch of them in museums. They think they might be colonists or Indians, they don't know which ... redcoats, maybe. That was luck for you. Keep your fingers crossed ... hope we have as good a break ... even top the record. Who knows?"
    "
¿Quién sabe?
" said Tornid.
    Just then the cow horn did blow. "Told ya," I said. "Another minute and we might have made the breakthrough. The wall's feeling pretty crumbly now."
    "Yeah," said Tornid. "I know."
    We looked through the squash vines on top, to make sure we were not being seen by anybody. Then we climbed out, wiped the sweat from our faces, stashed away our tools, and emerged as the cow horn blew again.

Chapter 10
The Curious Visitor
    This time the cow horn meant good news. My mom said ... knock me flat..."How'd you like to have dinner at the Fabians' tonight?"
    Where's the hitch, I wondered. But I said, "Sure. Did Bayberry (I thought I could begin to call Tornid's mom by her nickname since the glacier was receding), did she invite me?"
    "Well, you don't think I did, do you?" my mom said.
    Then Tornid came running over. "Mrs. Carroll," he said. "Can Cope ... Nick ... sleep over, too?"
    "Who's Copenick?" my mom said. And she said, "Your mother must be out of her senses. You won't sleep ... there might be school tomorrow ... we won't know till late tonight. If there is, you'll be tired."
    "Oh, we'll sleep, won't we, Torn ... Timmy?"
    So later, there I was then ... knock me flat—I never thought it would happen again ... at the dining-room table in the Fabians' home. This might make you think that Tornid's mom and dad had decided to forgive and forget the Myrtle Avenue El expedition. But I can tell that his mom is still wary of me. I hope someday she'll like me. I'm doing my best to make a good impression, stay seated, not hop up in the middle of the meal, not sprawl, not gulp down my milk or my water, use the right knife and fork and spoon—they lay them all out at each place, regardless of whether you're going to need the whole shebang or not. It is to accustom you to the sight of several forks and spoons. If you should go to a banquet, you won't act like a clod and eat your salad with the wrong fork ... end up for dessert with the dinner one.
    I'll give the lineup at the long table.

    Tornid and me were sitting with our backs to the windows above the hidey hole. LLIB (Llyeeb, I call him ... he likes it and I'm trying to get in good with all Fabians, beginning at the lowliest), sitting on