The House with a Clock In Its Walls (18 page)

BOOK: The House with a Clock In Its Walls
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“No idea at all,” said Jonathan, shaking his head. “He seems to have vanished from the face of the earth.”

Suddenly Lewis began to squirm and scrunch around in his seat again. He was on the brink of saying something.

“Uncle . . . Jonathan?” Lewis’s voice was dry and throaty.

“Yes, Lewis? What is it?”

“I . . . I let Mrs. Izard out of her tomb.”

Jonathan smiled calmly. “Yes,” he said. “I knew you did.”

Lewis’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know?”

“You left your flashlight up at the cemetery. I found it in a pile of leaves when I went up to put Mrs. Izard back in her tomb.”

“Are you going to send me to the Detention Home?” asked Lewis in a tiny, frightened voice.

“Am I going to
what?
” said Jonathan, staring at him in disbelief. “Lewis, what kind of ogre do you think I am?

“And besides,” Jonathan added with a sudden smile, “why should I punish you for doing what I tried to do myself when I was a boy? Like you, I was interested in magic at an early age. It runs in our family, I guess. I was trying to impress a girl. You wanted to keep Tarby for a friend. Isn’t that right?”

Lewis nodded sadly.

“By the way, Lewis,” said Mrs. Zimmermann. “How are things between you and Tarby these days?”

“Not so good,” said Lewis. “I don’t think Tarby and
I were meant to be friends. We’re not the same type. But it doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” said Jonathan. “Well, it certainly
does
matter! If he’s such a stuck-up little . . .” He stopped because he saw that Lewis was smiling smugly.

Jonathan wrinkled up his eyebrows so that they looked like two mating auburn caterpillars. “Lewis Barnavelt!” he roared. “Are you hiding something from me?”

Lewis was trying very hard to keep from giggling. “Oh, nothing much, Uncle Jonathan,” he said. “Except that I have a new friend.”


Whaaat?
You
dooo?
” said Jonathan and Mrs. Zimmermann in unison.

“Yes. Her name is Rose Rita Pottinger, and she lives down on Mansion Street. She knows the names of all the different kinds of cannon. Want to hear them? Saker, minion, falconet, demi-culverin . . .”

“Aaaaah!” screamed Jonathan. He threw two fistfuls of paper into the fire. “That’s all I need. An expert in Elizabethan ordnance. Promise me one thing, Lewis.”

“What’s that?”

“If you and tiny Rosie decide to start a cannon foundry in our basement, let Mrs. Zimmermann and me know so we can go visit my relatives in Osee Five Hills. Okay?”

Lewis giggled. “Sure, Uncle Jonathan. I’ll let you know.”

Jonathan waved his pipe at the bonfire. The leaves stirred uneasily, and then they gathered into a large black
ball. The bonfire turned into a jack-o’-lantern. Now the three of them took turns pitching chestnuts into the eyes, nose, and mouth of the ferocious lantern.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
The chestnuts went off in a ripping string, like a fusillade of musket fire.

Jonathan, Lewis, and Mrs. Zimmermann sat around the fire talking until the scowling orange face fell in with an airy
whoosh
. Then they got up, stretched, and went wearily off to bed.

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