Читать книгу Jerry Todd and the Flying Flapdoodle - Edward Edson Lee - Страница 6

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Horse Foot got switched around during the night. His head was near mine when I went to sleep. But when I woke up, the next morning, with the alarm clock jingling in my ears, there he lay with his feet in my face. Oof! No wonder I couldn’t smell the dirty old rags any more.

Red was wedged in on the other side of me. But he jumped up in a jiffy when he heard the alarm. For this was the day of days for him.

“Come on, fellows,” he called. “It’s time to get up.”

The rag shed was as black as pitch when we turned in. But the cracks were full of new daylight now—a sort of pinkish-yellowish daylight, with a lot of dew and fresh growing smells fastened to it. And more daylight, of the same kind, streamed in when we opened the big door.

The bull had gone off to the lower part of the pasture to eat his breakfast. So we didn’t have him to worry about—not then! And taking the glider out of the shed, just as quiet as we could, we started up the grassy hill.

“How about the wind?” says Scoop, when we got to the top of the hill.

“I was just wondering,” says Red, as he looked down the hill, “if there’s enough wind to keep me up.”

Peg was grinning as usual.

“I suppose,” says he, “that we can get a fan, if necessary.”

“Shall we try it?” says Red, with another look down the hill.

“Why not?” says Scoop.

So Red got into the cockpit. And when he was all set, with his feet on the rudder bars and his hands on the stick, we started off down the hill lickety-cut.

The tow rope was fixed so that it would drop down of its own accord when the glider got high enough. But it hadn’t dropped down when we came to the end of our run. And when I looked around, there sat Red in the cockpit, just the same as when we started out.

Peg let on that he was surprised.

“Look, fellows!” says he. “He’s back already. Quick work, huh?”

“Sap!” says Red. “I haven’t been up yet.”

“What’s the matter?” says Peg, with dancing eyes. “Did you forget to turn on the gas? Or were your feet too big for the pedals?”

“It wasn’t me—it was you. You didn’t run fast enough.”

Gosh! I was winded already. But I wanted to get him up if I could. So I helped pull the glider back to the hilltop. And then, when everything was ready, we started off again.

There was a sudden squawk from Red as he bounded along behind.

“Look out, fellows! Here comes the bull!”

And now comes the funny part. For what do you know if the bull didn’t run into the long tow rope. The rope got tangled up in his horns. And when I looked around, as I streaked it for a fence, there was Red hopping along behind the bull like a big toad.

“I’m flying!” he screeched. “I’m flying!”

And then, as the bull gained speed at the foot of the hill, the glider shot up just as pretty as you please.

The bull was after Peg now. For he had on a red sweater. And having gotten away myself, without a scratch, I jumped on the wooden fence to see the fun.

Around and around went Peg. And around and around went the bull, with the glider flying behind like a huge kite. And every time it took a dip, or a hop, Red let out a squawk. He was crazy to fly. But he didn’t think it was so hot, I guess, to be towed around by a mad bull.

He tried to let on afterwards that he clung to the stick like grim death. Lindbergh number two! But every time I got a peek at him, as he bobbed up and down in the cockpit, he was waving his arms like a runaway windmill. Gee! No bucking broncho ever yanked its rider around any worse than he got yanked around in that bucking glider. For every time the bull gave a lunge the glider shot straight up. Then as the rope tightened, and the glider leveled off again, Red got a yank in the neck that almost popped the eyes out of his head.

Peg went by us like a shot from a gun. And after him came the bellowing bull. Peg was hoping, I guess, that the glider rope would free itself. But it didn’t. So finally he jumped the fence. And down came the glider on the bull’s back!

The bull felt pretty big when he was scooting around the pasture. But now he was scared stiff. He thought some kind of a demon had jumped down on him, I guess. And away he went, as tight as he could go.

He had his head through one of the wings. That took the glider with him. And, of course, wherever the glider went Red went too. For he was still strapped in his seat.

HE HAD HIS HEAD THROUGH ONE OF THE GLIDER WINGS.

I thought it was funny when he was riding the bumps at the end of the tow rope. But this was funnier still. Boy! Did he ever yap! I thought I’d bust.

The bull finally freed itself by plowing through a thicket at the lower end of the pasture. And when we got there, Red was weaving around like an old toper with a whiskey-bottle nose.

He thought at first that he had landed on Mars. And when I tried to tell him that he had been riding around a pasture on a bull, he just laughed at me. Him ride on a bull! Poof! Poof! It was too silly to mention. But he got his senses back in a hurry when we dragged the broken glider into sight. And instead of “poof-poofing” he started to howl.

Old Emery saw us coming across the pasture.

“I knowed it,” he growled, as we set the glider down beside him. “I knowed you’d smash it.”

“Can we leave it in your rag shed,” says Red, “till we get time to fix it up?”

“Humph! You better let me have it. Fur you’ll never be able to do anything with it.”

But Red wouldn’t give it up. And having put it away, in one corner of the big rag shed, we started gloomily for home.

Mum was just getting up.

“Well,” says she, with a yawn, as Horse Foot and I tumbled hungrily up the back steps, “did you have a good time last night?”

“Swell,” says I.

And dropping my blanket I jumped for the faucet to get a drink.

“Where did you sleep?” says mum, with another yawn.

“In old Emery Blossom’s rag shed.”

“Goodness gracious!” she sputtered. “Whatever possessed you to sleep in a buggy place like that—with everybody’s old rags!”

And then she took our blankets and threw them outside.

Red had two breakfasts that morning. He fried something for himself when he first got home. And when I went over there at eight o’clock, he and his ma were eating cornflakes in the kitchen.

“How about some more cream, ma?” says he, as I came in and sat down near the door.

“What?” says his ma, as she peeked into the pitcher. “Have you used up all that cream?”

Red measured with his finger on the side of the pitcher.

“There wasn’t much,” says he. “Just up to there.”

That set his ma to sputtering.

“Honest to goodness, Donald Meyers! If all the cream that you ate turned into fat, you’d be as big as an elephant.”

Red snickered.

“As big as my Aunt Pansy, huh?”

His ma didn’t like that. For she’s kind of big herself!

“Donald!” she spoke sharply. “That’s no way for you to talk about your aunt. And I want you to hush up.”

But it takes more than that to stop Red.

“Say, ma,” says he, as he started in on another wad of cornflakes, “is Aunt Pansy going to live with us for the rest of her life?”

“She may.”

“Huh!” came the disgusted grunt. “I wish she’d get another husband and move her old truck out of here. She’s got the attic full of stuff—old chairs and sofas and everything else.”

His mother gave him a sharp look.

“Donald!” says she. “Have you been up in the attic lately?”

“No.”

“Your Aunt Pansy told me the other day that you had been fooling around her dead chest.”

Dead chest! What was that?—a coffin?

I was glad when Red kept on talking about it. For I was curious.

“Say, ma,” says he, “where’d Aunt Pansy get that chest anyway—and what’s she got in it? It’s as big as a young barn.”

“Her husband made it for her.”

“Uncle Patsy?”

“Yes. And it’s full of keepsakes.”

“What kind of keepsakes?”

“Oh, old wedding gowns and old photographs and things like that—stuff that different members of the family left behind them when they died.”

So that’s what a dead chest was!—a chest full of dead people’s things! I never had heard of one before.

But I knew all about Uncle Patsy, and how he had gone down in the Illinois River. He fell out of a fishing boat. And that was the end of him. Since then his widow had made her home with the Meyers family. For she and Mrs. Meyers are sisters.

I’ve often mentioned Aunt Pansy in my books. It was her parrot, you know, that Red took to Oak Island in the “Caveman” book. And it was in front of her beauty parlor, downtown, that we plastered Chester Ringbow with soft laundry soap. That happened in the “Freckled Goldfish” book. Yes, I knew Aunt Pansy well. But I never heard before that she had a dead chest in the attic.

“Say, ma,” Red then inquired, “is it all right with you if I shake some money out of my bank?”

“What for?” came the quick inquiry.

“I want to buy something.”

“Candy, I suppose.”

“No,” Red shook his head. “It isn’t candy. It’s something important.”

I knew what he wanted the money for. He wanted to get his glider fixed up. And he couldn’t do it till he bought a lot of new canvas for the wings.

“Can I, ma?” he coaxed.

“No.”

“Aw, shucks!” he bellowed. “It’s my money. I don’t see why I can’t spend it. You spend your money any time. So why can’t I?”

I spoke up then.

“Maybe your ma’ll let us mow the lawn,” says I.

Red jumped at that.

“Will you, ma?” says he eagerly.

“But the lawn doesn’t need mowing. For your father just mowed it yesterday afternoon.”

“Then we’ll wash the windows. Won’t we, Jerry?”

“Sure thing,” says I.

“What windows are you talking about?” says Mrs. Meyers.

“Why, our windows, of course—the big bay window, where you’ve got the cactus plant, and all the other windows.”

“But I didn’t tell you that our windows needed washing.”

“We’ll wash ’em anyway. Won’t we, Jerry?”

“Sure thing,” says I again.

“But they don’t need washing,” Mrs. Meyers declared.

And all the time she kept looking at us as though she had a pain in her head. For it was a new thing to her to have Red coax for a job. And it puzzled her.

“How about the porch floors?” he then inquired.

“Yes,” his mother stiffened, “I’d be likely to let you wash the porch floors—after the way you slopped around last week.”

“I didn’t slop so very much,” says he. “Just a little bit in front of the door.”

“I suppose you’ve forgotten how I had to bail out the whole front hall. And for a minute or two I was even scared that the piano would start floating around.”

Red grinned.

“I’ll be careful, ma. Honest. And I’ll do it cheap too—only a dollar.”

“Cheap? A dollar? Why, I never paid you more than ten cents.”

“But I need a dollar.”

“What for?”

Red blew up then.

“Oh, gee-miny crickets!” he bellowed. “There you go again! What for? What for? Is that the only record you’ve got?”

He needed a good shaking up for that. But he was saved by Horse Foot, who came into sight tooting on a police whistle.

“I’ve got b-b-bugs,” he told Mrs. Meyers.

“Bugs?” says she.

She looked kind of puzzled at first. And then she got a worried look. For women think it’s an awful disgrace for a bug to creep up on them. I’ve already told you how mum acted about the blankets. And that, of course, is where Horse Foot got the idea that he had bugs.

Red knew what the “bug” talk was liable to lead to. So he started for the door.

“Come on, gang,” says he. “Let’s get out of here.”

But his ma headed him off.

“No,” says she firmly, “you can’t leave here till you tell me what you want to buy. And I want to get at the bottom of this bug business too.”

“They’re rag-shed b-b-bugs,” says Horse Foot.

Red gave him a kick.

“Shut up, you dumb cluck!”

Mrs. Meyers took Horse Foot into the pantry.

“Have a cookie,” says she sweetly.

“Um-yum-yum!” gurgled Horse Foot, as the cookie did a disappearing act into his big mouth.

Nor did he notice that Red had pocketed his whistle.

“And now let’s hear about the bugs,” says Mrs. Meyers in the same sweet way.

“We slept in a r-r-r-r—” Horse Foot began.

He was trying to say rag shed. But Red stopped that.

“Tra-la-la-la-la-la!” he boomed at the top of his voice, thus drowning out everything else. And then, as his ma bounced out of the pantry with a switch, he made a break for the door.

“Come on, Jerry,” he yelled.

He was in such a hurry to get away that he never noticed a loose pile of magazines on the floor. And down he went in a heap, with magazines all around him.

“It serves you right,” says his ma, as he got up whimpering.

And then she made a jump for the telephone. For it was clattering to beat the cars.

“Hello!” says she. “Oh! . . . Is that you, Mrs. Todd?” There was a short pause. “Why, of course—I’ll be over right away. Good-by.”

“Was it my ma?” says I.

“Yes. She wants me to help her with a dress that she’s making. And I told her I’d be over right away. You can gather up the breakfast dishes, Donald. And then tie up those old magazines that you tripped over. For I told Mr. Blossom that I’d have them ready for him this morning. When he pays you, put the money in the cupboard in that old sugar bowl. I must hurry now. For Mrs. Todd is waiting for me. Be a good boy till I get back.”

And out she went, with the screen door banging behind her.

Red started to dance.

“I know now how I can make some money,” says he.

“How?” says I.

“Selling old magazines.”

I searched his eyes.

“What do you mean?—that you’re going to keep your ma’s money, and not put it in the sugar bowl, like she said?”

“No,” he shook his head. “That’s her pile of magazines on the floor. I’m going to get mine out of the attic.”

And turning, he tore up the stairs.