Paperback(Reissue)
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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780060722166 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 07/27/2004 |
| Edition description: | Reissue |
| Pages: | 96 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.12(w) x 7.62(h) x 0.19(d) |
| Lexile: | 630L (what's this?) |
| Age Range: | 8 - 12 Years |
About the Author
Peter Sís is an internationally acclaimed author, artist, and filmmaker. Among his works are three Caldecott Honor books: The Wall: Growing Up Behind the Iron Curtain; Tibet: Through the Red Box; and Starry Messenger: Galileo Galilei. He has illustrated five other novels by Sid Fleischman, including the Newbery Medal book The Whipping Boy. He lives with his family in New York State.
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
The Man on the Roof
It was raining bullfrogs. The coach lurched and swayed along the river road like a ship in rough seas. Inside clung three passengers like unlashed cargo.
One was a blacksmith, another was a thief, and the third was an orphan boy named Touch.
Touch was skinny and bareheaded, with hair as curly as wood shavings. Despite the blustering April night, he felt in the best of spirits. He'd never ridden high and mighty in a coach before, and meant to enjoy every passing mile. His usual way of travel was on his two lanky legs.
"Raining bullfrogs," the blacksmith said again.
"I noticed," said Touch.
"Boy, is that your stomach growling? You hungry, lad? You're so thin a body would have to shake out your clothes to find you. Touch is your name, is it?"
Touch's clothes were, in fact, acres too big, but they were the best fit he'd been able to get from a ragman's castoffs in Portsmouth. In the lining of the coat he'd found a gold piece hidden away, and that had enabled him to give up the fine art of walking, for the coach.
The blacksmith dug into one of his pockets and produced a lump of dark bread. "Put this in your stomach, lad."
Touch accepted the bread with thanks, but added, "A crumb or two will suit me. I expect my great-uncle will have a feast laid out for me when we get to Cricklewood. We never met before, but I wrote him a letter I was coming."
"Who's your great-uncle?"
"Wigglesforth. Judge Henry Wigglesforth. Maybe you know him."
The blacksmith's hand, big enough to span a pie plate, gave his jaws a scratching, thoughtful rub. "Of course I do, Touch.Everybody does."
A blast of thunder filled the air, and the thief took a quick look back over his shoulder. He was a longarmed man with his face wrapped around with a great brown muffler so that he looked to Touch like a loosely wrapped mummy. Glancing back over his shoulder seemed to be habit, for Touch had noticed him do it before, as if the man thought someone might be following him.
"Stranger, what did you say your name was?" asked the blacksmith.
"I didn't," answered the thief. In fact, he had, but he changed his name more often than his stockings, and now he couldn't remember what name he'd bestowed upon himself.
"I thought you said Cratt."
"Otis Cratt," added Touch, as if to confirm the blacksmith's memory.
A short grumble shot through the mummy wrappings. "Then that must be my name. Otis Cratt, to be sure. And good-night."
He locked his arms as if to sleep. But hours later when the blacksmith checked through his leather billfold, Touch noticed Otis Cratt's eyes drawn to it like a compass needle to true north.
After a while, Mr. Hobbs, for that was the blacksmith's name, fell into a contented doze. Touch was content to watch the rain.
In a flash of lightning, he caught sight of Otis Cratt's long arm. It was weaving like a snake stalking its prey, reaching out for the blacksmith's billfold.
Touch was too astonished to speak.
The chiming of a watch lifted the blacksmith's eyelids. The thieving hand retreated in a flash. Mr. Hobbs hauled up the gold chain across his vest to glance at his watch. But there was no watch at the end of the chain.
Sleepily, the blacksmith chuckled and poked the empty end of the chain back into his vest pocket. Otis Cratt rewrapped the muffler around his face. But not before Touch had got a look. A face rough as moldy cheese, and eyes as deep as knotholes.
But a watch continued striking the hour overhead, as clear as church bells.
The blacksmith came fully awake, and his gaze
shot upward at the roof of the coach. "Merciful powers!" he said, and laughed. "He's come for a ride! It's The Great Chaffalo! With his watch as big as a turnip!"
"Chaffalo?" Touch muttered.
"The magician! The haunt, lad! If you want to see a live ghost, stick your head out the window. He's on the roof."
Touch wasn't certain that he wanted to lay eyes on a haunt, but he stuck his head out into the rain.
In the pale light of the coach lantern, he could see the coachman with his face turned back. And on the roof, he caught sight of a long leather boot glistening in the rain.
A merry voice shot through the air. "Drive on, coachman! And watch that pothole dead ahead!"
Touch was surprised that his heart wasn't in his throat. He blinked away the rain and wished he could see better.
They hit the pothole, and Mr. Hobbs grabbed Touch by the collar to keep him from flying out the window.
"Did you get a good look?" asked the blacksmith, hauling Touch back into the coach. "He ain't shy, that one. He was famous once. That chiming watch was given him by the King of Prussia."
Otis Cratt sat unconcerned, wrapped in his muffler against the cold.