Rufus M.

by Eleanor Estes

  As Rufus’s class marched down the granite steps, they could see Mr. Pennypepper leading the way all by himself at the head of Room One, and looking neither to the left nor the right, except at street corners, when he held up his hand and made all traffic stop. But Rufus couldn’t see Mr. Pennypepper anymore once he had reached the sidewalk, except when he led the long column around the corners.

  Now they were all marching down the street toward the railroad tracks. Rufus hoped they would march down under the bridge and up and out the other side. One thing he really loved to do was to be under the bridge when a train raced past on the tracks above. He liked to walk under the bridge anyway and smell the dampness, for there was usually a trickle of water oozing from the rough rock wall. If a train were not going past he could roar, himself, and fill the space up with a tremendous never-ending echo.

  But Mr. Pennypepper did not lead the school down and under the bridge. He led the way up the gently sloping pebbly hill on this side of the tracks. Some of the children began to limp, for they had cinders in their shoes. But they all kept in line. Even the big boys stayed where they were supposed to because the Superintendent, Pop Pennypepper, as he was affectionately called, was leading the procession.

  Now Rufus’s class started up the slope. Rufus could hear yelling up ahead. Soldiers probably. He patted his pocket and smiled. At any rate the soldiers would have one washcloth before they got over there. If the teacher had divided the pile of washcloths and said, “One half of these goes to the soldiers over there, and one half to the ones that have not left yet,” why, that would be more fair, he thought. Well, anyway, they would have one—his. And this happy thought consoled Rufus for the disappointment over not marching under the bridge.

  A pebble went through the hole in the bottom of Rufus’s shoe and lodged between the layers of leather. He had to walk on his heel. But he didn’t think about that. There were the soldiers! All dressed in khaki! A whole trainload of them, yelling and waving their hats and leaning far out of the windows to catch the flowers and shake hands!

  All the classes took turns going to the train. First Room One and then Room Two. The little girls were tossing their flowers everywhere—at the soldiers, through the windows, and on the train itself. Rufus stamped up and down impatiently. He could see that when Room Three pressed ahead to the train he could easily give a soldier his washcloth.

  He grinned when he thought how surprised the soldier would be. Here the soldiers were, all getting plenty of asters and chrysanthemums, but not one single washcloth so far. As it happened, thought Rufus, wiping his sweaty hand on it, it was good his had turned out to be a big loose one like a fishnet, rather than a small tight one like Emma Ryder’s. It would go further.

  “Hurry up, Room Two. Get out of the way,” he yelled. Nobody could hear him because everybody else was yelling. At last Miss Wells clapped her hands. “All right, Room Three,” she said. And boys and girls rushed to the train.

  Rufus clutched his washcloth in his fist, not realizing that he was getting it all smudged again. It was good that Mama could not see it now. It still had his name, RUFUS M. ROOM THREE, pinned to it. Rufus did not think to take this off. The teacher had said to put it on, so he left it on.

  The boys were waving flags. The girls were throwing flowers. The soldiers were catching them and putting them in their buttonholes, behind their ears, and in their hats. And Rufus was looking for the captain. All the soldiers looked like captains to him. He shook hands with a lot of them and one soldier whisked him up and stood him on the platform. Rufus felt like a soldier himself and in the excitement he forgot about his washcloth. He had it in his hand but he forgot to give it to anybody. Maybe it was because it was in his left hand and everybody was shaking his right. Anyway, when the teacher said, “All right now, Room Three, step back into place,” Rufus still had his washcloth in his hand and he still did not remember about it.

  He did not remember until Room Three was all lined up across the way again. Then, “Criminenty!” exclaimed Rufus. “I forgot the washcloth!” And before anyone could stop him he bolted out of line and ran back to the train. Nobody was at the train at this moment. Room Three had left it and Room Four was about to come. Only Rufus was at the train. All the soldiers were grinning at him and watching him. The whole school was watching him, in fact. Mr. Pennypepper was rocking from heel to toe.

  Many little girls looked from Rufus to Mr. Pennypepper, wondering what he would do. And the boys asked themselves, “Did Rufus have a special part to play in this performance?” And Miss Wells clapped helplessly. To have Rufus alone at the train was not part of the program. But Rufus was not thinking about this. He was only thinking now about what soldier he should give his washcloth to. He wished he had been as good a knitter as Emma Ryder, who held the record for Room Three and in the end had made six! None of the six was as big as his, though.

  There was one curly-haired soldier leaning out the window, chewing gum and cheering lustily. Rufus thought he looked sort of like the one who had hoisted him onto the platform. He wore his khaki hat way back on his head and it was a wonder it did not fall off. He was a real husky soldier. Rufus reached his hand up and pressed his washcloth into the soldier’s large palm.

  “Here,” yelled Rufus. “You want it? It’s a washcloth.”

  The soldier’s fist closed on it. “Ouch!” he said. “What bit me?”

  “Oh,” warned Rufus, too late. “Look out for the pin. It’s just my name.”

  “And is this for me?” asked the soldier, holding the washcloth up.

  “Yeah. I made it. I knitted it,” explained Rufus.

  “Gee, thanks!” said the soldier, and he mopped his face with it and gave Rufus a broad grin and a wink.

  Rufus smiled. He forgot he was supposed to be in line with Room Three. He did not know that everybody was watching him, including Mr. Pennypepper, and he started to back down the slope, thinking he’d go home now that he’d delivered his washcloth.

  His teacher thought differently. “Rufus Moffat, come back here,” she called.

  But Rufus did not hear her because all the soldiers were having a good time cheering him and he had to wave back. Mr. Pennypepper, who had been holding Room Four at bay until Rufus should be out of the way, and who had been rocking back and forth on his toes, and jingling the keys in his pocket through all this interruption in the plans, hurried after Rufus himself and turned him around.

  “Criminenty!” exclaimed Rufus when he saw Mr. Pennypepper, and he tore back to his place in line amid more loud cheers from the soldiers.

  All of this inspired Mr. Pennypepper to make a little speech. He stood on the platform beside the train and, turning now to the soldiers and now to the children of the school, he said that one washcloth was a symbol. It was a symbol representing how the people of Cranbury were behind our soldiers in the great combat overseas.

  When the cheering that greeted Mr. Pennypepper’s impromptu speech subsided, Room Four proceeded with the regular program. From then on everything went according to schedule. Nobody else had brought washcloths. Just asters and chrysanthemums. Finally the whole school sang songs, and at last the train began to move slowly, slowly, down the tracks.

  Rufus happened to be standing near a telegraph pole. He quickly shinnied up it to see if he could see his soldier. There he was! And he saw Rufus, too! He mopped his face again with the washcloth and pointed to his chest. Rufus saw that he had pinned his name, RUFUS M., to his khaki coat. Rufus laughed. This was some soldier! The train began to gather momentum now. Faster and faster it went, but Rufus’s soldier hung way out of the window and waved his washcloth as long as you could see anything, until the train disappeared down the tracks and across the marsh.

  “Good-bye, soldier!” yelled Rufus, and he slid down the pole.

  Mr. Pennypepper started leading the classes back down the hill and away from the railroad station. All the children marched as far as Elm Street and there they were dismissed.

  R
ufus went straight home. He looked around for some string. He found some wound up in a ball in the pantry. It was red string. This would make a good washcloth, he thought, for he intended to make another one. Of course, he couldn’t cast on. But Jane did that for him.

  “What’s this gonna be?” she asked.

  “Washcloth,” said Rufus. “A red one.”

  But Rufus did not have enough red string to make a whole washcloth, only enough for two or three rows. He did find some blue and some white string and he wondered how it would be to make a red-white-and-blue washcloth. Nobody could tell him. “Try it,” they said. So every now and then he knit a row of white and then a row of blue. The trouble with this washcloth was that it had knots in it where he joined the red to the blue.

  “You should learn to splice,” said Joey, who could splice rope. But before Rufus finished his red-white-and-blue washcloth, one day the postman came right into Room Three.

  “Is there a Rufus M. in this room?” he demanded, looking over his glasses at the class.

  “Yes,” yelled the whole class, pointing to Rufus.

  “Here’s mail for him,” said the postman. And he handed Rufus a postcard.

  Rufus was stunned. At first he could not move. The only time he had ever gotten a postcard before in his life was from Sylvie when she went away to Camp Lincoln for a week. And on Valentine’s Day he got valentines but not from the letter man. They came under the door with a ring of the bell and stamping of feet on the porch. Come to think of it, nobody ever got letters right in school. Home was where letters came, if there were letters. At last he managed to stand up and go to the front of the room and take his postcard. He examined it a long time. It had a picture of a soldier laughing on it. He turned it over. It was addressed to Rufus M., Room Three, School, Cranbury, Conn., U.S.A. The message on it was this:

  “The washcloth you knitted sure comes in handy. My buddies and I all take turns. Al.”

  Al—that was that soldier’s name. Rufus smiled. He showed it to everybody and then he put it in his pocket and he kept it there always.

  3

  The Invisible Piano Player

  Rufus did not think about the invisible piano player all the time. He ate, drank, slept, went to school, went to Sunday School, read his postcard from the soldier Al, hiked up East Rock with Joey, and played, most of the time. Still, whenever he went past a certain house on Pleasant Street, he did think about the invisible piano player who lived there.

  The Saybolts lived in this house: Mr. Saybolt, a motorman on the Bridgeport Express, and Mrs. Saybolt, his wife. She called all children “Tigers!” and chased them off her white sidewalk and out of her hedge chairs—two hedges in front of the porch she kept clipped in the shape of armchairs. She was a jolly lady on the whole, who sometimes laughed and talked to herself when she was hanging up the clothes. She just did not want children sitting in her hedge chairs. Rufus did not know whether the invisible piano player was named Saybolt or not. He had never seen him. So far as he knew, neither had anybody else ever seen him. This was natural since he was invisible.

  It happened quite by accident that Rufus found out about the invisible piano player. Nobody told Rufus a word about him in advance.

  One day Mama sent Rufus to the Saybolts’ house with Mrs. Saybolt’s new navy blue dress. It was not far, just around the corner. But Rufus was proud to go there with the new navy blue dress, because it was the first time that Mama had ever let him deliver any of her dressmaking alone. That meant he was a big fellow in the family now.

  Rufus walked up on Mrs. Saybolt’s porch. She wouldn’t call him “Tiger,” because he was here on business. Inside someone was playing the piano. Rufus rang the bell. Nobody answered the door. He rang again. Still no one answered. They couldn’t all be out because somebody was playing the piano. Rufus supposed no one could hear the bell because the person playing the piano was making so much noise. The door was open, so Rufus stepped in. He stood for a moment in the hall.

  “Hey,” he called, in a lull in the music.

  Nobody came. And the music began again, so Rufus stepped into the parlor expecting to see Mrs. Saybolt playing. Then he stood transfixed in the doorway. There was music coming from the piano. The keys were hopping up and down, playing a lively tune. But, nobody was sitting at the piano playing it.

  Rufus recognized in a flash what it was—an invisible piano player!

  Rufus stood there, watching. He knew about invisible people. Certain people who wore certain cloaks were invisible. Jane had read him a story only this morning about one of these fellows. That one happened to be a prince, an invisible prince.

  Rufus would have liked to stay there forever watching the invisible piano player, but just then Mrs. Saybolt came downstairs, scooped up her navy blue dress, pinned three dollars to a piece of paper, gave it to Rufus, and scooped him out the door, dropping two cents in his palm for himself. He didn’t have a chance to ask one word about the fellow.

  That was the first time that Rufus knew about the invisible piano player. But always after that when Rufus went past this house he thought about him, especially if he could hear him busy at the piano. When he wasn’t playing the piano, Rufus wondered if he sat in the hedge chairs. He could sit there because Mrs. Saybolt could not see him. He wondered many things about the man. He wondered if you could feel an invisible man or if touching him would be like touching air. He asked Jane.

  Jane thought a long time. Then she said she thought you could feel an invisible man. The only thing you couldn’t do was see him. If he sneezed or coughed, she thought you could hear him. Hear him and feel him, that’s what she thought.

  This sounded sensible to Rufus. He wished Mama would send him to the Saybolts’ house again, but right now Mama was not sewing for Mrs. Saybolt. Rufus hoped that someday he’d have a chance to go back to this house and look at the stool where the invisible piano player sat. Then he would try to touch him and really find out if you can feel an invisible man or not.

  Going to school and coming home from school Rufus passed the Saybolts’ house. Whenever he heard the invisible piano player, he paused to listen. This was the only invisible man he knew about outside of those fellows in books. And he was a smart man. To be invisible is smart in itself. But to be invisible and such a good piano player also was quite remarkable. A Paderooski, thought Rufus. This chap never missed a beat. Tum-te-tum! He never struck the wrong note, the way he and Jane did on their organ. He never had to practice exercises, either, the way Nancy Stokes did. He just played. Rufus admired him very much.

  Rufus listened from outside and across the street as much as he could. But the opportunity to get inside the house again did not present itself for a long time. Then one day when he heard the invisible piano player he stopped to listen for a moment. He could hear him very well because the window on the porch was open. Mrs. Saybolt was nowhere in sight. So Rufus tiptoed up on the porch and looked through the open window. This was almost as good as being inside the house. And there was the invisible piano player as invisible as ever!

  Rufus watched the keys hop up and down and he tried to imagine what the invisible piano player might look like if he didn’t have his cloak of invisibility on.

  All the while that Rufus was watching through the window he kept one ear cocked for Mrs. Saybolt, so he could run if she came and called him “Tiger!”

  Then it occurred to Rufus that perhaps the reason the piano player stayed invisible was that he might be afraid of Mrs. Saybolt. In that case the invisible piano player might not be a man after all. He might be a boy like Rufus. He might be a boy who did not like to be called “Tiger!” and therefore made himself invisible.

  “Are you scared of Mrs. Saybolt?” he asked. “Don’t be scared. I won’t let her hurt you.”

  At this moment Mrs. Saybolt came around the corner of the house, her apron full of twigs she had snapped off the hedge. “Shoo, tiger!” she shouted.

  Rufus tore home and crawled into the little old chi
cken coop, where he thought for a while. But he couldn’t stay there long because curiosity won the upper hand. He must find out once and for all: Can you feel an invisible man or is he like thin air?

  With bits of feathers and chicken dirt clinging to him, he returned to the home of the invisible piano player. Mrs. Saybolt was in the backyard now, her mouth full of clothespins, hanging up the laundry. She did not see Rufus.

  Rufus decided to hop in the open window, feel the place where the piano player should be, and then hop out. He stepped over the low windowsill into the parlor. But he didn’t go right over and touch the invisible person. He suddenly felt shy about that. He couldn’t see the invisible man but the invisible man could probably see him and would not want him to get too close while he was playing. Rufus sat down on the edge of a chair and watched.

  Up and down, up and down, hopped the keys. Clinkety-clinkety! Poompty-poomp!

  There came a little pause in the music.

  “Hey, mister,” said Rufus, in case it were a man and not a boy after all.

  Nobody answered him. The music began again. This piano player was wonderful. Poompty-poomp! Rufus stared hard, watching the keys hop up and down all along the keyboard from one end to the other. At last Rufus stood up. He cautiously approached the piano. Now he was going to touch the invisible piano player’s hand, if possible.

  Rufus reached out his chubby fist. The keys kept hopping up and down very fast and Rufus swooped his hand up and down the keyboard but he did not feel anybody’s hand there. It was a very scary thing to do, feeling for an invisible piano player’s hands.