finished shoveling the old lady's driveway. Finally!
Alex paused and took a deep breath of cold night air. He glanced up and down Washington Street. It was lined on both sides with big, old Tudor houses, and all of them had their Christmas trees out on the street now that the holiday was over.
Alex was exhausted, and hot. Worst of all, under his snow clothes he itched all over. Whoever washed his long underwear last must not have rinsed all the soap out.
Leaving his snow shovel at the foot of the driveway, Alex trudged up the front walk and rang Mrs. Hess's doorbell. The old gray-haired lady pulled open the door instantly, as if she'd been standing there waiting. She was wearing the same old housedress and thin gray sweater she wore every day, summer and winter.
"I'm all done, Mrs. Hess," Alex said, not pulling the wool ski mask off his face because he was too busy reaching into his parka to scratch his chest.
The old witch narrowed her eyes at him. "You were supposed to deal with this snow promptly, young man. Instead I came home from San Francisco and discovered I had the only driveway on the block that wasn't cleared."
"Yes, but—"
"Butts are for ashtrays," Mrs. Hess snapped. "We had an agreement and you broke it."
"I'm sorry." Alex nodded reluctantly and reached down to scratch his leg. She was right. He could have shoveled the driveway sooner. But he'd built a snow fort in his backyard instead. Besides, if she wasn't home, what was the point? Still, he wasn't going to fight over it. "You don't have to pay me if you don't want to."
"Ha!" Mrs. Hess let out a cackle that caught him by surprise. "So you can tell the whole neighborhood I stiffed you?"
"No." Alex shook his head vigorously.
"Here." Mrs. Hess shoved a box at him. It had a picture of a toy car on it. "I left San Francisco with a loaf of sourdough bread in my bag and somehow wound up in Chicago with this. Consider it your pay. I have no use for the silly thing."
Alex winced. A toy car for all that work? He forced a smile to his face and resumed scratching himself. "Thanks, Mrs. Hess."
The old lady nodded sourly. "And have your mother teach you that it's rude to scratch yourself in the presence of a lady."
Bang! She slammed the door closed.
Alex sighed, took his toy car and snow shovel, and trudged back across the street to his own house, a big, old Tudor like all the others on the block.
He hardly took notice of the blue van rolling slowly down the street past him.
2
As the gray van moved slowly up Washington Street, Peter Beaupre couldn't believe what he was seeing. Neither could Alice Ribbons.
"Look at these houses," she said with a groan. "They're all old. Most of them are Tudor. They all have Christmas trees out, and the driveways have all been Shoveled."
Peter Beaupre looked into the rearview mirror at Earl Unger. "How're we supposed to know which one the old lady lives in?"
"You got me," Unger replied with a shrug.
Peter Beaupre sighed and pulled the van around in a U-turn. "I counted nineteen houses. We're going to have to come back and search every single one of them."
3
Alex let himself into his house and quickly pulled off his parka and snow pants, leaving them in a damp heap on the floor. He couldn't wait to get out of that itchy long underwear. His stomach was itching like crazy. He pulled up the front of his turtleneck . . . and stared down in frozen shock.
His stomach was covered with red blotches!
They looked like the pimples his older brother, Stan, sometimes got on his face.
What were they doing on his stomach?
Alex pulled out the waistband of his long underwear and took a peek down. Yup, they were on his legs, too. And his arms. He reached around and felt behind.
Uh-oh!
Alex quickly glanced around him. From the kitchen came the sound of his father, simultaneously chopping onions for dinner and talking on the phone.
"You have to see this new wire feed welder. . . . That's right, for a gasless flux-cored wire. . . .
Alex paused and took a deep breath of cold night air. He glanced up and down Washington Street. It was lined on both sides with big, old Tudor houses, and all of them had their Christmas trees out on the street now that the holiday was over.
Alex was exhausted, and hot. Worst of all, under his snow clothes he itched all over. Whoever washed his long underwear last must not have rinsed all the soap out.
Leaving his snow shovel at the foot of the driveway, Alex trudged up the front walk and rang Mrs. Hess's doorbell. The old gray-haired lady pulled open the door instantly, as if she'd been standing there waiting. She was wearing the same old housedress and thin gray sweater she wore every day, summer and winter.
"I'm all done, Mrs. Hess," Alex said, not pulling the wool ski mask off his face because he was too busy reaching into his parka to scratch his chest.
The old witch narrowed her eyes at him. "You were supposed to deal with this snow promptly, young man. Instead I came home from San Francisco and discovered I had the only driveway on the block that wasn't cleared."
"Yes, but—"
"Butts are for ashtrays," Mrs. Hess snapped. "We had an agreement and you broke it."
"I'm sorry." Alex nodded reluctantly and reached down to scratch his leg. She was right. He could have shoveled the driveway sooner. But he'd built a snow fort in his backyard instead. Besides, if she wasn't home, what was the point? Still, he wasn't going to fight over it. "You don't have to pay me if you don't want to."
"Ha!" Mrs. Hess let out a cackle that caught him by surprise. "So you can tell the whole neighborhood I stiffed you?"
"No." Alex shook his head vigorously.
"Here." Mrs. Hess shoved a box at him. It had a picture of a toy car on it. "I left San Francisco with a loaf of sourdough bread in my bag and somehow wound up in Chicago with this. Consider it your pay. I have no use for the silly thing."
Alex winced. A toy car for all that work? He forced a smile to his face and resumed scratching himself. "Thanks, Mrs. Hess."
The old lady nodded sourly. "And have your mother teach you that it's rude to scratch yourself in the presence of a lady."
Bang! She slammed the door closed.
Alex sighed, took his toy car and snow shovel, and trudged back across the street to his own house, a big, old Tudor like all the others on the block.
He hardly took notice of the blue van rolling slowly down the street past him.
2
As the gray van moved slowly up Washington Street, Peter Beaupre couldn't believe what he was seeing. Neither could Alice Ribbons.
"Look at these houses," she said with a groan. "They're all old. Most of them are Tudor. They all have Christmas trees out, and the driveways have all been Shoveled."
Peter Beaupre looked into the rearview mirror at Earl Unger. "How're we supposed to know which one the old lady lives in?"
"You got me," Unger replied with a shrug.
Peter Beaupre sighed and pulled the van around in a U-turn. "I counted nineteen houses. We're going to have to come back and search every single one of them."
3
Alex let himself into his house and quickly pulled off his parka and snow pants, leaving them in a damp heap on the floor. He couldn't wait to get out of that itchy long underwear. His stomach was itching like crazy. He pulled up the front of his turtleneck . . . and stared down in frozen shock.
His stomach was covered with red blotches!
They looked like the pimples his older brother, Stan, sometimes got on his face.
What were they doing on his stomach?
Alex pulled out the waistband of his long underwear and took a peek down. Yup, they were on his legs, too. And his arms. He reached around and felt behind.
Uh-oh!
Alex quickly glanced around him. From the kitchen came the sound of his father, simultaneously chopping onions for dinner and talking on the phone.
"You have to see this new wire feed welder. . . . That's right, for a gasless flux-cored wire. . . .
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