Revenge of the Lawn Gnomes by R. L. Stine Page A

“That’s fun.”
    I shrugged. “Who cares? Winning isn’t everything.”
    “Where did you read that?” she asked. “In a bubble gum comic?” Then she
rolled her eyes again. I think someday her eyes are going to roll right out of
her head!
    I rolled my eyes, too—back into my head until only the whites showed. “Neat
trick, huh?”
    “Cute, Joe,” Mindy muttered. “Really cute. You’d better watch out. One day
your eyes might not come back down. Which would be an improvement!”
    “Lame joke,” I replied. “Very lame.”
    Mindy lined up her feet carefully again.
    “She’s in her serve position,” I spoke into my paddle. “She’s nervous. She’s…”
    “Joe!” Mindy whined. “Quit it!”
    She tossed the Ping-Pong ball into the air. She swung the paddle, and—
    “Gross!” I shouted. “What’s that big green glob hanging out of your nose?”
    Mindy ignored me this time. She tapped the ball over the net.
    I dove forward and whacked it with the tip of my paddle. It spun high over
the net and landed in the corner of the basement. Between the washing machine
and the dryer.
    Mindy jogged after the ball on her long, thin legs. “Hey, where’s Buster?”
she called out. “Wasn’t he sleeping next to the dryer?”
    Buster is our dog. A giant black Rottweiler with a head the size of a
basketball. He loves snoozing on the old sleeping bag we keep in the corner of
the basement. Especially when we’re down here playing Ping-Pong.
    Everyone is afraid of Buster. For about three seconds. Then he starts licking
them with his long, wet tongue. Or rolls onto his back and begs to have his
belly scratched.
    “Where is he, Joe?” Mindy bit her lip.
    “He’s around here somewhere,” I replied. “Why are you always worrying about Buster? He weighs over a hundred pounds. He can
take care of himself.”
    Mindy frowned. “Not if Mr. McCall catches him. Remember what he said the last
time Buster chomped on his tomato plants?”
    Mr. McCall is our next-door neighbor. Buster loves the McCalls’ yard. He
likes to nap under their huge, shady elm tree.
    And dig little holes all over their lawn. And sometimes big holes.
    And snack in their vegetable garden.
    Last year, Buster dug up every head of Mr. McCall’s lettuce. And ate his
biggest zucchini plant for dessert.
    I guess that’s why Mr. McCall hates Buster. He said the next time he catches
him in his garden, he’s going to turn him into fertilizer.
    My dad and Mr. McCall are the two best gardeners in town. They’re nuts about
gardening. Totally nuts.
    I think working in a garden is kind of fun, too. But I don’t let that get
around. My friends think gardening is for nerds.
    Dad and Mr. McCall are always battling it out at the annual garden show. Mr.
McCall usually takes first place. But last year, Dad and I won the blue ribbon
for our tomatoes.
    That drove Mr. McCall crazy. When Dad’s name was announced, Mr. McCall’s face turned as red as our tomatoes.
    So Mr. McCall is desperate to win this year. He started stocking up on plant
food and bug spray months ago.
    And he planted something that nobody else in North Bay grows. Strange
orange-green melons called casabas.
    Dad says that Mr. McCall has made a big mistake. He says the casabas will
never grow any bigger than tennis balls. The growing season in Minnesota is too
short.
    “McCall’s garden loses,” I declared. “Our tomatoes are definitely going to
win again this year. And thanks to my special soil, they’ll grow as big as beach
balls!”
    “So will your head,” Mindy shot back.
    I stuck out my tongue and crossed my eyes. It seemed like a good reply.
    “Whose serve is it?” I asked. Mindy was taking so long, I lost track.
    “It’s still my serve,” she replied, carefully placing her feet.
    We were interrupted by footsteps. Heavy, booming footsteps on the stairs
behind Mindy.
    “Who is that?” Mindy cried.
    And then he appeared behind her. And my eyes nearly bulged right out