The Riddle of Penncroft Farm (4 page)

“Where are you from?” one of the girls asked.

“Minneapolis, Minnesota,” I said. My lips felt a little numb and stiff, as if I'd just had a filling.

A short, fat kid in a cowboy outfit laughed. It was not a friendly laugh. “Minneapolis—that hick town! My dad says that's in flyover country.”

The pirate girl looked at me with sympathetic brown eyes—or eye, actually, since an eye patch covered one of them. “Oh, Eddie, don't be such a jerk,” she said to the cowboy.

Mrs. Hettrick raised her hand for silence. “We're going to take a little break from our party so that everyone can meet our new student. Take your regular seats, so he can tell us something about himself.”

Grumbling, the other kids walked into the next room and sat down. Thinking I had already said more than enough, I followed the teacher to the front of the room.

“Um, I just moved here from Minneapolis,” I said, then stopped. I couldn't think of anything else to say.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Mrs. Hettrick prompted.

“Uh-huh,” I said, feeling dumber by the second.

“Well, which do you have, brothers or sisters?”

“Brothers . . . or rather,
one
brother.
He
gets to stay in Minnesota.”

“Flyover country,” somebody whispered from the back row.

Mrs. Hettrick asked me to introduce myself.

“Lars . . . Lars Olafson. It's a Norwegian name,” I added.

The same someone snickered in the back row and called out, “It's Nor
weird
gian.” It was the chubby kid in the cowboy suit that the pirate girl had called Eddie—and a jerk.

“Edward Owens . . . ,” Mrs. Hettrick started to say, but the kid interrupted her.

“Edward Owens the Tenth,” he said, putting his stubby nose a little higher in the air.

She frowned. “Edward Whatever-you-are, either you stop being rude or you'll spend the rest of our party parked in the office.”

Her threat brought a ripple of applause from the rest of the class. It made me feel a little better to know that the other kids weren't too crazy about Eddie.

The applause got louder when Mrs. Hettrick told the class they could go back to their party. Most of the kids returned to the open area where the games were set up. I stayed where I was.

Mrs. Hettrick took me aside. “I hope you'll have no objection to wearing a costume on Colonial Day,” she said.

“Colonial Day? What's that?”

“It's a special event we have every year—the big finish of our unit on colonial life and the American Revolution. We have crafts and food and games from that era, and this year Pat Hargreaves is going to provide some authentic music.”

I looked around at the other students. So my distant cousin, Aunt Cass's favorite kid,
was
in my class. Where was this wonderful boy, anyway? And if he was so wonderful, why hadn't he spoken up when that Eddie creep was making fun of me?

The girl pirate, who had stuck around, was chattering about Colonial Day. “We've been getting ready all fall,” she said enthusiastically, “researching customs back to the early settlements in Pennsylvania—William Penn and everybody—and my mom's making me a long skirt like Martha Washington's, and—”

“B-but
I
don't know anything about William Penn or . . . anybody,” I broke in. “All I've been studying this year is Minnesota history, starting way back in 1830 with—”

“Eighteen-thirty!” somebody said sarcastically. That guy Eddie again. “That's all? Pennsylvania was settled way before that—in 1682. And
my
great-great-great-great-great—well, at least
seven
greats—grandfather was one of the first guys to come over.”

Mrs. Hettrick looked as if she'd heard all of this before. “Yes, Eddie, we know about your illustrious ancestors,” she said frostily, “but right now I have to talk to Lars about catching up with the rest of the class.” She turned to me. “Don't worry—I'll give you some books to read, and maybe you can write a special report instead of taking the tests.”

“That's not fair,” Eddie whined.

“I'm sure Lars had to take just as many tests back in Minneapolis as we've had here, Eddie. Why should he be penalized because he had to move during the school year? Now,
that
wouldn't be fair.” She went over to her desk.

I glanced at Eddie and thought that just moving into a classroom with a jerk like him was penalty enough.

The girl pirate sat down at the desk next to me. “Aunt Cass told me you were coming, but she called you George, so I wasn't sure if you were the guy she meant,” she said, putting up her eye patch. “I guess we're distant cousins or something. My name's Pat.”

“
You're
Pat Hargreaves? But you're a
girl!
”

Pat reached for a chain at her neck and toyed nervously with the ring that hung on it. “Well, yes, I—,” she started to say.

“That's all I need. My only neighbor is a
girl!
” I muttered. I guess I muttered louder than usual, because she gave me a hurt look, got up, and walked away. I felt bad, but after all, it wasn't my fault Aunt Cass had bamboozled me again.

Someone else sat down by me—the cowboy, unfortunately.

“If you live anywhere near Patty Hargreaves, you must still be a hick. She's really out in the boondocks,” he said.

“Yeah,” I replied, clenching my fist in an effort to keep my temper. “We live at a place called Penncroft Farm . . .”

Eddie jumped up so fast his cowboy hat fell off. “You've moved to
Penncroft Farm?
Just wait until I tell my dad!” he shouted. I wondered if he were crazy or something.

Mrs. Hettrick came back with an armload of books. “Eddie,” she said sternly, “one more outburst from you and
I'll
have to tell your father a thing or two. Here, Lars, this should get you started.” She handed me the stack of books.

Eddie picked up his hat and left, but as he walked off he whispered, “Just wait till my dad finds out.”

I picked up one of the books Mrs. Hettrick had given me, opened it at random, and stared blindly at the page.

The rest of the day dragged by. I was so embarrassed by the stupid things I'd said and so angry at the teasing I'd received that I didn't speak to anyone.

When the bell finally rang, I followed the others out to the circular drive where the buses were lined up. I found the number eight bus and walked stiffly to the backseat. It appeared that I lived the farthest away from school because almost everyone got off the bus before I did. Only Pat Hargreaves remained, sitting up in front near the driver. I hoped she'd forgotten what I'd said to her, but the look she gave me as she climbed down from the bus said plainly she remembered it all.

It was only a little farther to my stop, and, with a sigh of relief, I jumped down from the bus.
No school until Monday
, I thought happily as I started down the pike. There was still a half-mile walk to Penncroft Farm, but I dawdled along. I was in no great hurry to get home to Mom's questions about my first day at school. Besides, it was a really nice day, and I didn't want to waste it unpacking cartons.

I gave a tentative kick to a good-size stone on the shoulder of the road. It skittered nicely across the blacktop, so I kicked it down the narrow, winding road. I was so intent on what I was doing that I didn't pay attention to anything else. I suppose that's why, when I came to the old covered bridge, I didn't notice anybody standing inside, until my rock disappeared under the roof of the bridge, and I looked up. Someone about my age or a little older stood facing the other direction. Even in the shadows, I could tell it was a girl—the ponytail and puffy sleeves made that obvious.

I was determined not to get off on the wrong foot with this girl. “Hi,” I said shyly. “I didn't see you there. Hope I didn't hit you with my rock.”

She turned around. There was nothing female about the face that grinned at me, or the gruff voice. “Nay, you missed me by a furlong.”

I was astonished. This was a boy all right, but he was wearing the weirdest clothes I'd ever seen. Besides the white shirt with billowy sleeves, he had on pants that ended at his knees, long white socks, and black shoes with big buckles. In his hand was a hat—a three-cornered hat.

Boy, Pennsylvania kids really go all out for Halloween
, I thought.
And do they talk funny
. “Furlong?” I echoed, wondering if it meant
far
or
long
or whatever.

“Want to join me in a game of huzzlecap?” the boy said.

“Sure,” I said, grateful for the invitation, even if I didn't know what it was for.

We fell into step and crossed the bridge. There we stopped. The kid put his hat down on the ground and took some coins from his pocket. “Huzzlecap's easy enough,” he explained. “You need only pitch a farthing into the tricorne.” His accent sounded as foreign as his words.

“Ah,” I said, trying to sound as if I understood.

When the kid threw a coin at the three-cornered hat, I began to get an idea of what he meant, even though the coin didn't land anywhere near the target. “You . . . um . . . missed it by a furlong,” I said.

“Aye, but it's a sight trickier than it looks. You try.” He handed me one of the coins. I rubbed my finger over the raised letters:
F-A-R-T-H-I-N-G
. The rest of the letters were too worn to read, but now I remembered what a farthing was. I also recognized the boy's clipped accent. “Hey, are you British or something'? My folks have been to England. They brought me back one of each kind of coin—a farthing, sort of like this one, and a tuppence, and even a ha'penny like in the ‘Christmas Is A-Coming' song.”

The boy looked at me with such an odd expression that I thought I'd put my foot in my mouth again.

I plunged on awkwardly. “You're not British, right? Sorry. I'm new here myself, and . . .” I figured I'd better change the subject. “Uh, I like your costume. Where did you get it?”

“My mother made it—from start to finish. It took her well nigh a fortnight just to weave the linsey-woolsey on her loom.”

Again I was impressed by how much Pennsylvanians did for Halloween. Then I recalled that even in Minnesota, I knew some moms who were into weaving.

“What are you supposed to be?” I asked. My mother's words about Uncle George's long-haired phase popped into my head, and I made a wild guess. “A hippie?”

“Nay,” said the boy with a smile and a shake of his head.

“Now, don't tell me—let me guess. Are you supposed to be George Washington? He wore a funny hat like that—but you know, your hair is all wrong. His was all curly and white.”

The boy chuckled. “That was a wig, Lars. I feared you would be ignorant, but not as ignorant as that!”

My jaw must have dropped to my knees. “H-how did you know my name?” I managed to ask.

He picked up his hat and put the farthings in his pocket. “I heard your mother call you that,” he said nonchalantly.

“But how did you hear . . .”

He ignored my question. “Come play ducks and drakes,” he said. “Yonder's a prime spot for it—the run's wider there.” He quickly walked toward the stream.

I followed, intrigued, and soon learned that
ducks and drakes
was his name for skipping rocks, something I was really good at, having grown up in the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes. My companion told me I was a “dab hand at ducks and drakes.” I figured that was a compliment and returned it, because he was a good rock skipper, too. Unfortunately, he bounced away from my questions as expertly as he skipped stones.

After we were about skipped out, he turned to me and said, “'Tis good you've moved into Penncroft Farm.” Suddenly he plucked the tricorne off his head and sailed it into the air. I dashed forward, caught it, and lobbed it back to him. We tossed the hat back and forth like a Frisbee until we reached the old split-rail fence bordering Penncroft Farm.

My new friend climbed up the zigzag rails and straddled the top. “It always seemed a waste of time to build fences around apple trees. They weren't about to run off. But the law said all farms had to be fenced. These stake-and-rider fences were the very devil to build, but they've weathered well,” he remarked.

“Stake-and . . . ?” I began, but just then I spotted my mom waiting at the end of the driveway by the Penncroft Farm sign. She was shading her eyes and looking anxiously down the road. When she saw me, she waved and started toward me.

“I've been waiting for you to get home, Lars,” she said as she came closer. “How'd it go at school? Did you make any friends yet?”

“Well, yeah
. . . this
guy,” I said, jabbing my thumb behind me toward the fence.

Mom looked where I'd pointed. She frowned. “What guy?”

“This guy right . . .” I whirled around. My newfound friend was nowhere to be seen. The stake-and-rider fence was riderless.

4

Saturday, I'd planned on sleeping in. But it was clear that my parents had different plans for me. At seven-thirty, my mother invaded my room.

“Time to get up, Lars. We need you to clean out the barn so we can stick the empty cartons in there.”

“The whole barn? All by myself?” I squawked.

“Well, at least the ground floor,” she said, relenting. “Be glad the barn's only half its original size. There used to be a whole other wing—the foundation's still there.”

“What happened to it?” I murmured sleepily, playing for time.

“It caught on fire ages ago. Probably hit by lightning. The fire was put out, but only half the barn was saved.”

Dad poked his head through the doorway. “Come on, Lars, hop to it. You've got to clear away the junk and rake out the barn. But do me a favor: Stay away from that wagon!”