“We have to get out,” Carlotta said. “Mrs. Peepgrass told us that if we’re ever in a fire, we’re supposed to get out right away.”
“But the books…”
“Homer! Mrs. Peepgrass said that things aren’t as important as lives.”
Homer, who only heard about one percent of the things Mrs. Peepgrass said, remembered the story of Millicent Smith, an American treasure hunter who died after going back into her blazing house to try to save her bungee cords. “She was the world’s best volcano jumper,” Uncle Drake had told him. “The treasure-hunting community lost her expertise forever. Fire shows no mercy. Remember that.”
Smoke stung Homer’s eyes as he helped Carlotta to her feet. He tucked the coin book under his arm. “Come on, Dog.” They headed toward the front door but didn’t get far as flames leaped off the bookshelf, blocking the way. Carlotta started coughing. Dog barked at the flames.
“The stairs,” Homer said. He grabbed Carlotta’s hand and pulled her toward the stairwell. “Dog!” he called. But Dog stood his ground. The room was quickly filling with smoke. Homer rushed back and tugged on Dog’s collar. “Come on, will ya?” But Dog shook off Homer’s grip and kept barking. Homer couldn’t get a full breath. He dropped the coin book, wrapped his arms under Dog’s belly, and picked him up. Wobbling beneath Dog’s weight, he carried him into the stairwell.
With a groan, Homer collapsed. Dog tumbled onto the floor. The window was still wide open but too high to reach. Scrambling to his feet, Homer put his hands under one of Carlotta’s slippers and pushed her up the wall. “Help!” Carlotta cried, sticking her head out the window. “HELP!”
Out in the main room, the library’s front windows buckled and shattered. A wailing siren approached. Luckily, the fire truck didn’t have far to go because the fire station stood in the center of town. Headlights lit up the night as members of the Milkydale Volunteer Fire Brigade arrived, most in their pajamas.
“HELP!” Carlotta yelled again and again.
“HELP!” Homer yelled, struggling to push her higher up the wall. Smoke trailed into the stairwell. Dog started barking again.
A pair of big hands reached through the window and pulled Carlotta to safety. Then a ladder slid through and the fire chief landed next to Homer. “Anyone else inside?” he asked.
“No,” Homer said, breathless. The fire chief slung Dog over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and they all made their escape.
Sitting on the grass across from the library, Homer held tight to Dog and watched as flames shot up the roof. It was the worst thing he’d ever seen and he fought the urge to vomit. Despite the brigade’s valiant efforts, the library could not be saved. Mr. Pudding pulled up in his truck, as did Mr. Crescent and every other farmer within earshot of the siren. As the last timber fell, attention turned to the boy, girl, and dog, each smudged with soot, sitting in the grass.
“It’s my fault,” Carlotta said, teary-eyed. “I dropped the candle.”
“No,” Homer said. “It’s my fault. I—”
“Of course it’s your fault,” Mr. Crescent interrupted. “My Carlotta would never have gone into the library at night on her own.”
“Hold on there, Crescent,” Mr. Pudding said. “Don’t you go blamin’ my boy.”
The fire chief took off his hard hat. “What were you doing in there?” he asked.
Homer looked at his father, whose face had turned as pale as the moon. How could he tell him? The library was supposed to be off limits. Treasure-hunting books were off limits. He’d be so disappointed.
“He burned it down on purpose,” someone yelled. “He’s always been weird.”
“He’s a juvenile delinquent.”
“No,” Carlotta cried. “It’s not Homer’s fault. We fell asleep and I dropped the candle. And his dog can’t smell so it couldn’t warn us about the smoke.”
“Can’t smell?” Mr. Crescent puffed out his chest. “The Pudding farm’s got a dog that can’t smell? That sounds about right.”
“This is the worst thing that’s ever happened in Milkydale,” someone said.
As people crowded closer, pointing their fingers and shouting accusations, Homer hung his head and closed his eyes, desperately wishing for a book to hide behind. Burning down the best place in Milkydale hadn’t been part of his plan. He’d failed miserably. Maybe his dad was right—maybe he wasn’t cut out for treasure hunting. Maybe his future was back on the farm after all.
“What are you going to do, Pudding?” Mr. Crescent asked. “Your boy burned down the only library in the county.”
“What am I going to do?” Mr. Pudding hollered. “Your girl’s the one who dropped the candle.”
“Yeah? Well your dog’s the one that can’t smell. If it had been one of my champion border collies, there’d have been no fire.”
Then everybody started yelling. Blame and insults were thrown around. Poor Mr. Silverstein, the librarian, arrived in his blue pajamas and started to cry. Homer’s whole body trembled as he sat in the grass, smoke filling the night sky. He couldn’t bear the pain on Mr. Silverstein’s face. He felt cold all over.
Carlotta jumped to her feet, her yellow bathrobe stained with grass. “Homer saved my life,” she said, but no one paid any attention.
“You’ll have to build a new library,” Mr. Crescent said. “You hear me, Pudding? You’ll have to build us a new one.”
Mr. Pudding shook his cap right in Mr. Crescent’s face. “I’ll build a new one. Don’t you worry, Crescent. I’ll build a right fine library. That’s my promise.”
“Everyone clear out,” the fire chief ordered. “There’s nothing more to see. Take your kids home. We’ll deal with this in the morning.”
Mr. Pudding didn’t say anything on the drive home. Nor did Homer. What could he say? Sorry seemed too small a word.
The red truck’s headlights cut through the lingering smoke, which hung foglike along the road. Dog sat in the truck’s bed, his jowls wiggling with each bump in the road. Homer stole a sideways glance at his father, who gripped the steering wheel as if he were afraid it might fly out of his hands. How was he going to build a new library? Where would he get the money or the time?
Everyone hates me, Homer thought. Even my own father.
When they got home, Mrs. Pudding, Squeak, and Gwendolyn were waiting on the front porch, brimming with questions. Homer watched from the truck. “Homer burned down the library,” Mr. Pudding said. “I promised to build a new one.”
“Homer did what? You’re gonna what?” Mrs. Pudding wrung her hands. “How can we afford that?”
“I gave my word and a man’s only as good as his word.”
That’s when Dog, once again forgotten, threw back his head and howled from the truck bed.
Mr. Pudding spun around. “Crescent’s right,” he said angrily. “A normal dog would have smelled the smoke. Tomorrow morning I’m calling that lawyer’s office and telling them to come and take it away. And that’s my final word!” He stormed into the house, with Squeak and Mrs. Pudding at his heels.
Homer didn’t want to go inside and face the endless string of questions. His mother’s face would be heavy with disappointment and worry. Squeak would cry because Dog was going to be returned. Gwendolyn would tell him that he’d ruined her life. Truth was, he’d ruined all their lives. At least that’s what he told himself as he sat in the truck, trembling.
Homer felt his dreams drifting away like smoke in the wind. Why fight it? Goat farming was his destiny. He’d get a pair of overalls from the Husky Boys section at Walker’s Department Store and start learning to run the family business.
“Urrrr.” Dog scratched at the back window. Homer slid out of the passenger seat and climbed into the truck’s bed. He wrapped his arms around Dog. “He’s gonna send you away,” he whispered. “I don’t want you to go. It’s all my fault.” He’d ruined Dog’s life, too. Dog was supposed to have a happy life on the farm, but now he’d be sent back to Snooty and Snooty’s law office. What had the le
tter said? That if the item was returned, it would be… destroyed?
Gwendolyn stepped onto the truck’s back bumper. “Come on. Get out of the truck,” she said in her bossy voice.
“Leave me alone.” Dog’s fur was soft against Homer’s face.
His sister leaned over the tailgate. “Listen. We’re gonna pretend that we’re going to bed. Then as soon as Mom and Dad fall asleep, we’re gonna run away.” She jumped off the bumper and opened the tailgate.
“What?” Homer looked up.
“I’m going to that VIP party, no matter what Dad says. But your stupid name is on the invitation so I need you to go with me.”
“Gwendolyn, you don’t understand. I just burned down the library. I broke Dad’s rule about not going there and now you want me to run away? Don’t you think I’m in enough trouble?”
“Exactly my point. You’re already in huge trouble. How much worse can it get?” She put her hands on her hips. “I’m figuring you can stay here and go to school and get made fun of because you burned down the library, or you can come to The City with me.” She scowled real hard. “Well?”
“The City?”
For a few crazy moments, Homer Winslow Pudding had tried to cast his dreams aside. But as much as a goat can’t stop being a goat, Homer couldn’t stop being a treasure hunter.
And so, a tiny spark of an idea fluttered through his mind. Surely The City had a library, probably much larger than the one he’d burned down—probably with a huge collection of coin books. The mysterious gold coin had to be valuable, otherwise why would his uncle have hidden it? Maybe it was worth enough money to build a new library! And while he was there, maybe he could find out more about his uncle. Find out where he had been living. Find out why all his stuff had disappeared. There might be a clue amid his uncle’s belongings that would give Homer a better chance of completing his uncle’s quest to find Rumpold Smeller’s map.
But Mr. Pudding had forbidden them to go to The City.
On the other hand, Mr. Pudding had said that a man’s only as good as his word. Homer had promised his uncle that he’d never give up his dreams.
Dog poked Homer with his wet nose. There was one more reason to go. If Dog was sent back to Snooty and Snooty, he’d be destroyed. Surely Homer could find a nice, new home for Dog along the way. A happy, safe home.
“Okay,” he told his sister. “We’ll go with you.”
PART THREE
THE CITY
13
The Runaways
Running away from home is not a good idea. Unless, of course, you happen to be forty years old, and then your parents will probably shout, “Hurrah!” and change the locks the minute you’ve stepped off the front stoop. But in the case of Gwendolyn and Homer, ages fifteen and twelve, setting off in the middle of the night would only bring their parents immense heartache and worry.
Perhaps they had good reasons for running away—Gwendolyn, to pursue her dream of becoming a Royal Taxidermist at the Museum of Natural History, and Homer, to honor his promise to his uncle, to help his father rebuild the Milkydale library, and to hopefully find Dog a safe, new home. But what they didn’t understand, as they tiptoed past their parents’ bedroom, was that children who travel alone often become the targets of evil-minded scoundrels. And because their decision to run away had been impromptu, which means that they hadn’t thought it out, neither of them had packed an extra pair of underwear, or a toothbrush, or a first-aid kit, or a tin of cookies so they wouldn’t starve to death.
However, they did bring the things that were most important to them. For Gwendolyn, a duffel bag filled to the brim with her stuffed creatures and her copy of The Official Guidebook to the Museum of Natural History. For Homer, his Swiss army knife, his Galileo Compass, a flashlight, and the mysterious coin.
Homer’s legs ached because he’d never walked from his house to town twice in one night. “Hurry up!” Gwendolyn yelled about a million times as she galloped down the road. Dog’s little legs could barely keep up, while Homer’s didn’t fare much better. His thighs started to chafe.
At 12:46 a.m., Homer, Gwendolyn, and Dog arrived at the Milkydale train depot. It wasn’t much of a train depot, just a water fountain with a rusted-shut pump and a bench sitting under a tin roof. The Pudding children had taken the train a few times, when they’d gone to the coast to visit their grandparents. But never at night. And never alone.
Fortunately, the depot sat at the edge of the fairgrounds, so Homer didn’t have to look at the pile of smoldering ashes that had once been the town’s beloved library. Gwendolyn sniffed the air. “It still smells like smoke. Even way over here.”
Shame heated Homer’s face. He wondered if burned books made a special kind of smoke that clung to the world forever, in the same way that a book, once read, clings to its reader forever.
As he untied the makeshift leash from Dog’s collar, a rope he had grabbed on the way out of the house, Gwendolyn dumped her duffel on the bench, then read the train schedule. “We’ve got ten minutes till the next one. How much money did you bring?”
Dog settled under the bench for a nap. Homer tucked his flashlight into his jacket pocket, then turned his pants’ pockets inside out. “I’ve got a ten-dollar bill, a five-dollar bill, three one-dollar bills, and some change.” He’d been saving his birthday money so he could buy a new protractor and some large sheets of paper for map drawing. “How much do you have?”
“Two dollars,” Gwendolyn said.
“That’s it?”
“Taxidermy supplies are expensive, Homer. Do you have any idea how much formaldehyde costs?” She snatched Homer’s money from his hand. “I hope it’s enough for our tickets.” Then she plopped herself beside the duffel and pulled out the mysterious invitation. “Don’t you just love her name? Madame la Directeur. I bet she’s smart and beautiful.” As Gwendolyn rambled on and on about the invitation, the moon disappeared behind a cloud.
A cloud? Could it be the cloud? There was no place to hide. The tin roof offered no camouflage. Was the cloud moving closer? Homer crawled under the bench.
“Homer? What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re soooo weird.” She opened her museum guidebook. “I wonder where the party will be. I hope it’s in the Hall of African Mammals. How long do you think it takes to stuff a giraffe?”
Homer wished she’d be quiet. Back in the cherry orchard, when he’d met Ajitabh, the cloud had made a whirring sound. If Homer could hear above Gwendolyn’s jabbering, he’d know if Ajitabh was trying to sneak up on him. But on and on she spoke, about things of absolutely no interest to Homer.
There wasn’t much room under the bench, and the cement felt cold and rough against his palms. He laid his head on Dog’s warm side. Terrifying images marched through his mind in a sort of nightmare parade—the gaping mouth of a man-eating tortoise, hands reaching from a cloud, row after row of flaming books. Think of something nice, he told himself. He tried desperately to conjure a pleasant image but the flames kept shooting across the library. Closing his eyes tightly, he let Uncle Drake’s face fill his mind.
Homer knew every inch of his uncle’s face because he had stared at it during countless hours of storytelling—the scruffy mustache, the long nose, the jagged scar at the base of the chin. But what Homer most remembered was how Uncle Drake’s brown eyes would dart excitedly when he got to a dangerous part of a story.
“I wish you could have seen it, Homer. That chasm was bottomless, I swear it. If the rope had broken one second earlier, I’d be a goner for sure.”
A train whistle scattered Homer’s memories. Startled, he bumped his head on the underside of the bench. Dog rolled onto his belly and peered out. The chug chug of the engine grew louder and a white light illuminated the little depot. Gwendolyn jumped to her feet. “Come on, Homer,” she called, waving at the approaching train.
Homer crawled out from under the bench as the black train pulled up in a swirling dance of steam. T
he conductor stepped out. “Where’re you two headed?” he asked.
“To The City,” Gwendolyn said.
He looked around, then pushed his black hat off his forehead. “Don’t usually see children traveling alone at this hour. You got someone meeting you in The City?”
“Uh, yeah,” Gwendolyn said. “We’re going to stay with… our aunt.”
“You got money for your tickets?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, get on board then. Got a schedule to keep.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Gwendolyn picked up her duffel and climbed up the metal stairs. Homer’s legs froze as doubt overcame him. Was he doing the right thing? The City was very far from Milkydale. Maybe he should go home. He was just a kid, after all. Couldn’t his promise to never give up his dreams wait until he had grown up? Mrs. Peepgrass would get real mad if he missed school for any reason other than a contagious rash or a fever. And his mother and father would worry even though he’d left a note on his pillow: DON’T WORRY. I’M GOING TO MAKE EVERYTHING RIGHT.
“Urrrr.” Dog pressed his front paws on the train’s first stair and tried to pull himself up. “Ur, ur, ur, ur, ur.” He bounced on his little back legs and wiggled his rump.
“Looks like your dog wants to go for a ride,” the conductor said.
“Ur, ur, ur, ur, ur.”
Dog was trying awfully hard to get up those steps. Did he know that he needed to find a new home? “You’re right, Dog,” Homer said, pushing away his doubts. “We’ve come this far, we might as well keep going.” He wrapped his arms around Dog’s fat belly, took a deep breath, and heaved him up the steps. Then they followed Gwendolyn into a dimly lit car. The conductor blew a whistle and the train chugged out of the station.
“That dog will cost extra,” the conductor said, his voice booming through the car. It was dark in there, and there appeared to be no other passengers.
“What?” Gwendolyn cried, sliding into a window seat. “But he’s just gonna sit on the floor.”
Smells Like Dog Page 7
