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Overview
The orphans of Wanderville have decided to never again let themselves be confused by adults offering them shiny red apples and warm beds. They’re going to make their way to California and establish a more permanent spot for Wanderville.
But when they’re suddenly left without means of transportation, the orphans must find a new way of getting to their “town.” Enter a dandy motorist with a proposition: If the orphans agree to take a mysterious artifact to the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair on his behalf, they will receive a handsome reward that will allow them to book passage west.
The citizens of Wanderville conclude that this is their best bet. What they don’t realize, however, is just how treacherous the journey to the fair will be and how much they will need to sacrifice to finally find themselves a new home.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780698182981 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Young Readers Group |
| Publication date: | 06/16/2015 |
| Series: | Wanderville Series , #3 |
| Sold by: | Penguin Group |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 240 |
| File size: | 577 KB |
| Age Range: | 8 - 12 Years |
About the Author
Visit her online at WendyMcClure.net and follow her on Twitter @Wendy_Mc.
Read an Excerpt
1
Down, Jack thought as he pulled the handle. Down. He pulled again. Down.
The great iron arm creaked, and every so often the wheels would scrape as they slid along the tracks. Sometimes the scraping noise was so sharp Jack could hear it with his teeth. But it meant that they were making the handcar go as fast as it could—enough speed for a breeze that turned Frances’s hair wild and nearly blew Alexander’s cap away—and that was worth it. Even if all five of them wound up bone tired by nightfall again, at least they were going somewhere, right?
As far as Jack could tell, they were in Missouri still—the rusty stretch of railroad track they were on went past quiet cornfields and meadows. Twice they’d seen people—once, when they went by a farmhouse yard where a woman tended a clothesline, and then later, when they passed a man with a horse and plow. Frances’s little brother, Harold, had called out hello to them and waved, but the woman had only stared back in amazement and the man had scratched his head. Jack figured it had been years and years since a train had traveled on these tracks, much less a handcar with five kids on board.
The fewer folks they saw, though, the better. They had a long way to travel, after all. Jack had been thinking about it all morning, and he was sure the others were, too. California! He couldn’t believe they were on their way. But then he’d watch the big iron arm on the handcar go up and down like a seesaw and wonder how many times he’d have to pump those handles before they got to California.
Down. Jack pulled again and shifted his weight on his aching feet. Today he was riding backward. When they’d first found the handcar two days ago, Jack and Frances had taken the side that faced forward, while Alexander and Eli had been on the other side. Sometimes they all switched places, and while it hadn’t taken Jack long to get used to the motion of riding that way, he hated that the only thing he could see were the trees and fields behind their vehicle, slipping away into the distance.
“What’s . . . ahead?” he managed to ask between deep breaths. “What . . . can . . . you see?”
Eli, who, along with Alexander, had the proper view, shook his head. “Nothin’,” he puffed as he pulled down the handles on his end. “Same old . . . thing . . . Fields and stuff.”
Harold piped up. “That ain’t nothing!” He rode in the middle and held on to their supplies since he was seven and too young to work the handles on the handcar. “I see a big tree, and a barn way over there. . . .”
“Isn’t,” Frances corrected him. She was pulling right next to Jack, but she still had to be the big sister. “Not . . . ain’t.”
Jack had a feeling it was going to be another long day. Yesterday they’d kept the handcar going well after dusk, until they were so exhausted they could barely speak. They’d stumbled off the tracks and fell onto the nearest bit of grass they could find. Jack’s arms had felt sore to the bones, Frances complained of blisters, and Eli had declared that working the handcar was tougher than plowing.
“Just wait,” Alexander had said last night, while they all stretched out in the prickly prairie grass trying to find comfortable spots for sleeping. “Next thing you know, we’ll be eating oranges out west. . . .”
His had voice trailed off. Nobody else had spoken; they hadn’t had the energy to reply.
Jack was glad the five of them were on their own now, and not back at Reverend Carey’s farm. Or, worse, still on an orphan train or breaking their backs at the ranch in Kansas. They were free, which meant that they had to be better off now.
That’s what he kept telling himself, at least. We’re lucky. He’d say it in his head all day long today if he had to. In between pulling the handle, that is. Down . . . down. He knew there were other kids who weren’t so lucky.
An hour or so passed, and then another rusty shriek from the handcar wheels snapped Jack out of his thoughts. The awful sound grew louder, and Jack could feel himself cringing.
“Ow!” Harold cried, his voice barely carrying above the noise. “Ow!”
“What?” Frances called back to her brother. “What is it?”
Harold’s eyes were wide as he looked past Jack and Frances to the tracks ahead. And suddenly Jack realized what Harold was saying. Not ow but look out!
“We have to stop—” Alexander began. He and Eli could see whatever was ahead too, and they had quit working the handle.
“We have to brake!” Eli cut in. “Where’s the brake?”
“Here!” Frances reached for it, an iron lever near her feet. She yanked on it with both hands.
The handcar screeched and slowed just enough for Jack to turn around and see the tracks ahead.
Or rather, what was left of the tracks.
• • •
Where’s the bridge? Frances’s mouth went dry when she turned and spotted the creek ahead. Where there should have been a bridge, the tracks instead ended in two bent pieces that reached over the high bluff of the creek bank.
“We have to get off this thing!” Jack cried.
The handcar was still going plenty fast, its brake noise shrill and awful. The bank was just a few yards away and coming closer. Frances reached across to grab Harold’s sleeve, getting ready to pull him along into a well-timed jump—
But with a bump and a BANG!, the handcar slammed to a sudden stop. Frances lost her footing and toppled off one side, dragging Harold with her.
“Ooof!” She hit the ground hard on her backside.
Alexander stumbled over and offered her a hand. “You all right?”
Frances nodded and got up. She looked around: Her brother had managed to land on his feet, though he’d dropped the floursack full of supplies. Jack and Eli had gone off the other side of the handcar, and they were slowly pulling themselves off the ground.
“What just happened?” she murmured.
“It’s broken!” Harold cried, pointing over to where the handcar stood tilted to one side like a collapsed table. “The wheels came off the track!”
“Looks like it derailed,” Alexander said. He showed Frances and the others a spot along the tracks where two lengths of rail had come apart.
Frances looked over by the creek where the tracks abruptly ended. The bridge must have fallen long ago, and the rails on the bank had buckled. She was glad that the handcar hadn’t just pitched them all straight into the rocky creek bed, but now that it had gone off the rails it was useless. She watched as Jack kicked the handcar wheels, his jaw set. He reached up and yanked the big iron arm, which made a feeble creak.
“Forget it,” Eli said to Jack. “That thing isn’t going anywhere.”
Frances knew Eli was right. Even if they could fix it, there was no way they could haul it across the creek to where the tracks continued. She stepped closer to the wreck and sighed when she saw the snapped cables and a big splintery crack down one side of the platform.
“That was our treasure,” she said softly.
I’m sorry, Ned Handsome, she thought to herself. Ned was a hobo they’d met while riding the rails out of Kansas. Before they’d parted ways, he’d given them a mysterious set of directions leading to a “treasure” he’d stashed away. For weeks Frances had puzzled over the clues and dreamed of finding it.
And she had; she’d found the handcar. Over the past two days they’d used it to travel more than sixty miles all by themselves. It had seemed like there’d be no stopping them. Until now.
Frances had to bite her lip to keep back the tears. She glanced up to see Alexander looking over solemnly, as if to say he was sorry too. It helped to know that he understood.
Harold came over to her side and squeezed her hand. “Don’t be sad, Frannie. Nobody got hurt too bad.”
She squeezed his hand back. “You’re right. We’re lucky.” She was glad for the reminder. It could have been much worse. But Harold had nothing more than a couple of dirty scuffs on his knickers, Frances and Alexander had just a few scrapes and bruises, and Eli had a skinned knee that he was washing in the creek. As for Jack, he seemed unhurt, but his shoulders slumped and he rubbed his eyes like he had a terrible headache.
“What do we do now?” Jack asked, looking around at all of them. “How are we ever going to get to California?”
Nobody answered for a moment. But Frances turned to look at Alexander. She had a feeling he’d have something to say.
“That’s a good question, Jack,” he said. “But for now, we start by walking.”
2
“Walking?” Jack repeated. “You mean, just keep following these tracks? On foot?”
The five of them had picked up the supplies that had scattered in the crash and were now trudging down the bank to the edge of the creek. Alexander led the way, carrying the water jar.
“Sure,” Alexander said as he knelt to refill the jar in the creek. “Remember what Ned said about these rails? This is supposed to be a back road that goes halfway to Oklahoma.”
“We might as well keep going,” Frances added.
“Sure,” Jack replied, though sure was the last thing he felt right now.
When he reached the creek he bent down and plunged his hands into the stream. They’d been smarting like crazy ever since he’d used them to break his fall in the crash—he’d already had a blister on one palm from working the handcar pump handles. For a few moments he tried to soothe his hands in the cool water, feeling the chill of the stream creep up his tired arms.
“You coming?” Eli called.
Jack looked up to see that the other four were making their way over the creek, using stepping-stones to cross the water. Alexander was already starting to climb up the opposite bank. Jack sighed and got up to follow his friends.
Soon they were all walking alongside the rail line, a single set of tracks that ran past a muddy meadow and stretched on as far as they could see.
“How far is halfway to Oklahoma?” Harold asked, looking up at his sister.
“Shush, Harold,” Frances replied. “We need to concentrate on where we’re going.”
After that, nobody else said anything for a while. It was hot, and sometimes, when they passed swaths of taller grass, gnats and mosquitoes would drift around them, stinging their arms.
Jack was glad that the walk was easy, at least. You didn’t even have to hold your head up as long as you kept your eyes on the tracks. He wasn’t in the mood to do anything besides stare at his feet. But the less he had to think about where he was going, the more he thought about everything else. About everyone . . .
“What’s with you, Jack?” Frances kept looking over her shoulder at him as she walked, her face full of concern.
“Yeah, what’s wrong?” Eli asked.
“Nothing,” Jack said. He didn’t want to talk about what was on his mind. But his steps grew slower and slower.
A few yards up ahead, Alexander stopped and turned. “Don’t you want to keep going?” he asked Jack.
Harold came over and peered up at him. “We’re going to find Wanderville again, Jack,” he said, his voice hopeful. “I know we are.”
Wanderville—the town they’d created themselves. First they’d built it in the woods in Kansas, where they’d escaped from the orphan trains and the Pratcherds’ work ranch. Then, when they’d found a shelter for a while at Reverend Carey’s farm in Missouri, Wanderville was behind the barn.
Wanderville could be anywhere, they’d decided, but it wasn’t everywhere. It had to be a place where they felt truly safe. A place where other kids could come live, too. All kids in need of freedom, Alexander had said. And they were hoping that in California they could build Wanderville in a permanent spot.
Only it didn’t seem possible now. Not to Jack. Not at all.
He clenched his blistered hand to try to keep it from stinging. He looked down at Harold, and then over at Eli and Alexander and Frances, their shoes and stockings caked with mud. Walking, their only possessions the grimy clothes on their backs, a few meager provisions stowed in a flour sack, and a cracked jar of creek water.
“I don’t know about Wanderville,” Jack found himself saying suddenly. “Or California.” He couldn’t stop the words from rushing out, all his awful thoughts. “Maybe we won’t get there. Maybe it’s just hopeless.”
Harold’s face fell and he stepped away from Jack.
Alexander was incredulous. “How can you say that? Why?”
Jack took a deep breath and picked up his pace. “All we want is a better life, but things just keep getting worse for us.” He paused to wipe some extra mud off his shoe, then continued. “We keep trying to save other kids. But—but it’s no use. Because we . . .”
He was saying we, but deep down he felt like it was really his job to save other kids. He’d wanted to rescue all the kids on the orphan trains and all the kids who’d been sent to work at the Pratcherds’. And before that, back in New York, he’d wanted to save Daniel from the fire at the factory. His older brother, Daniel . . .
“We keep losing them,” he said softly.
Jack was striding even faster now, kicking at the gravel between the railroad ties. The other four hurried to keep up with him.
“But Jack,” Frances began, “we did save other kids. We rescued six kids from the Pratcherds. . . .”
He shook his head. “And where are they now? Quentin and Lorenzo ran off to join some hoboes. Then the rest of them—we lost them, too.”
It still stung to think about how much bigger their group had been. When they’d first stayed at the Careys’ farm there had been eight of them. But Sarah, Anka, Nicky, and George had decided they’d rather live in Reverend Carey’s big house than in Wanderville.
“Look, we’re better off without them,” Alexander said, a bit defensively.
“Are we?” Jack asked. “Look at us, limping along in the middle of nowhere. We can’t even save ourselves!”
Nobody said anything for a moment; they all just kept putting one foot in front of the other.
It was Eli who finally broke the silence. “Well, you saved me,” he said.
Eli had lived in one of the shanties in back of the Careys’ place. His father was a sharecropper who drank too much and had a terrible temper that he’d take out on Eli sometimes. So when Jack, Alexander, Frances, and Harold had left the farm, Eli had joined them.
Jack relaxed enough to manage a half smile. “Glad you’re here, Eli,” he said.
“Come on,” Frances insisted. “It’s not completely hopeless, is it? How do you think I felt when we crashed Ned’s treasure? But you don’t see me giving up, do you?”
Jack thought she had a point. But things still felt pretty dismal.
Alexander was walking right alongside Jack now. “We’ve just got to keep going. Our luck will change, Jack, I know it will. We’ll find other ways to travel. There will be other kids we can bring to Wanderville. Other people who will need our help.”
“Like that man over there,” Harold said, matter-of-factly.
“What?” Frances said. “What man?”
“In the motorcar.” Harold pointed across the meadow.
There, in the distance, was a big green-and-black touring car. There was no road in sight, yet oddly the car sat in the middle of a field, its engine silent, its two front wheels sunk into mud.
The five children stopped short. “What is an automobile doing out here?” Alexander wondered aloud.
“It’s stuck!” Harold declared. “And the man driving it is looking for help.”
Jack squinted at the far-off figure in the car. Harold was right: The man was standing up in the front seat, looking all around. The man turned in their direction and stopped, as if he could see them.
Uh-oh, Jack thought. The last thing they needed right now was another grown-up asking them questions.
“Harold, what are you doing?” Frances exclaimed. Jack turned to see that Harold was waving his arms to get the man’s attention. The man waved back.
“Look, we can’t just go talking to strangers,” Alexander warned.
But Harold had already climbed over the tracks and was running through the meadow, heading straight for the man in the motorcar.
3
“That’s my sister,” Harold was saying to the man by the time Frances reached her brother’s side. She and the others had run after Harold, but they hadn’t been able to stop him from talking to the stranger, who had climbed out of the car and was using a cloth to dust off one of the fenders.
“And these are my friends,” Harold continued, motioning to Jack and Alexander and Eli. “We escaped from the orphan trains, except for Eli, who—”
“Harold!” Frances snapped. She turned to the man. “I’m so sorry, sir, my little brother likes to make up stories and—”
The fellow held up his palm. “Say no more, mademoiselle. I mind my own business.” He tipped his hat and nodded at Frances and the boys. “Name’s Philander Zogby, and I humbly solicit your assistance.”
“That means you need help, right?” Harold asked.
Mr. Zobgy nodded. Frances couldn’t help noticing how dandyish he appeared—his cap was checkered, his suit striped, and he had a mustache that drew up into points like a bull’s horns. But under his mustache she could see that he was young, not much older than eighteen or nineteen, and it was hard for her to think of him as Mister Zogby.
He gave one of the front tires of the car a soft kick. “As you can see, my Cleveland Tonneau has found misadventure,” he explained. “I’ve been heading to St. Louis, on my way to the Fair, but these country roads aren’t made for motoring.
“I tried to take a shortcut through this nice meadow, but it seems meadows aren’t made for motoring, either.”
Frances and the others bent down by the front of the car for a closer look.
The mud in the meadow wasn’t too wet, but it was soft, and the motorcar’s front wheels had sunk down into it, the tires forming two deep ruts.
Alexander straightened up. “I don’t know, sir. That . . . Cleveland thing of yours is awfully big.”
And nice, Frances thought. The car had brass fittings on the headlamps and shiny upholstered seats. It looked pretty out of place in the middle of a meadow. Too out of place, in fact.
“We can’t just drag it out,” Alexander continued.
“Of course not!” Zogby said. “But we can put something under the wheels so they don’t keep digging into that mud. . . .”
Jack was nodding now. “And then we can push it from the back!” he said.
Jack seemed glad to help this Zogby fellow, Frances noticed. She looked over at the others. Alexander’s face was wary—Eli’s, too. Harold was busy gazing at the shiny brass edge of the car’s front grille.
She didn’t trust this fellow in his fancy duds and gaudy motorcar, but he sure looked like he had nickels to spare. Maybe, if they managed to get him out of this jam, he’d help them out, too.
Alexander caught her eye and shrugged. He seemed to be thinking the same thing.
“Well . . . all right,” he said. “Let’s get to work.”
Jack and Harold were already collecting twigs and sticks to put under the motorcar, laying them across the ruts in the mud and wedging them under the tires. When they’d gathered as many sticks as they could, Zogby began to work the engine crank.
“Get ready,” he called.
Alexander and Eli and Jack went to the back of the car, while Harold clambered up into the rear seat.
“What are you doing?” Frances scolded. “Get down from there!”
“Er . . . I told him he could give the orders,” Zogby said with a grin as he cranked.
“What orders?” she said, but suddenly her voice was drowned out by the chugging engine as it sputtered to life.
“PUSH!” Harold yelled at the top of his lungs.
The three older boys pushed against the back of the car. It rocked forward a bit, then shook as the front wheels struggled to find traction.
“PUSH!” Harold called again, but the wheels still spun in place despite the boys’ best efforts.
Frances looked at Zogby, who was now in the driver’s seat, fiddling with some valves, and then at her friends. Jack and Eli had dug their heels into the soft ground, while Alexander locked his arms and pressed his hands. She couldn’t tell if they were pushing really hard or just making a big show out of pushing. She went over and found a spot next to Alexander.
“We don’t need help,” he said, gasping.
“Sure you do,” she said. Then she gave the car a good shove the next time Harold called PUSH.
They all felt a big bump, and then the motorcar lurched forward.
What People are Saying About This
Praise for the Wanderville series:
“… A page-turner that will have readers eagerly waiting for the next installment. For those who want more background, the book includes a brief explanation of the Orphan Train Movement. Readers may wonder how children can survive on their own. Here, the strong characters make it plausible.” —Booklist
“McClure celebrates bravery, ingenuity, and the bonds of family and friendship in this old-fashioned story of children fending for themselves, building a community, and eluding the adults who seek them… Readers should enjoy vicariously participating in the children’s independence and will appreciate their hard-earned triumphs.”—Publishers Weekly
“Readers will be swept away by the bravery of the young heroes… Readers of series fiction who enjoy learning about the past will gravitate toward this accessible novel and will be impatient for the sequel.”—School Library Journal
"The idea of a kid-run town in the woods and all the rustically domestic details that entails will appeal greatly to the same kind of kids who love the Boxcar Children’s hidden home." —Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books
"A thoroughly enjoyable, fast-paced adventure." —Caroline Starr Rose, author of May B