Secret of the Mask by Gertrude Chandler Warner Page B

later, too.” He pressed the lid on the can. It was so rusty he had to pound it with his fist to make it stay shut. He set the can under his table while he finished sorting the yard sale money.
    The woman with the floppy hat wheeled her cart toward Henry. “Nothing here for me,” she said. “I’m looking for old things, antiques.” She peered over the tops of her glasses at the tackle box. “How much do you want for that?”
    “This?” said Henry. “It’s not for sale.”
    “Humph,” she said. “Figures.” She jutted her chin toward Violet’s books. “How much?”
    “Ah-um …” What was the right price? She didn’t know. “Ah-um, twenty-five cents each?” Had she asked too much for such old books? The woman grabbed all the Prairie Girl books from the table and shoved them into her cart. She threw down a few dollar bills and hurried off.
    Jessie pulled the wagon full of signs into the yard. She shook her head at all the bare tables. “We’re going to need a lot more things to sell tomorrow.”
    Violet sighed. All she had left were a few barrettes and two dolls with no clothes. “I brought out everything I could find.”
    “Me, too,” said Jessie.
    Henry put the bills into the tackle box and snapped the latches shut. “Well,” he said, with a sly grin, “I guess I could sell my old hockey skates.”
    “You wouldn’t!” said Benny, who was waiting to grow big enough to wear them.
    “Henry,” Violet said, “don’t tease.”
    Henry smiled. “Oh, all right. Then I guess I don’t have anything, either.”
    Violet picked up the pitcher of lemonade to take inside. “We should ask Grandfather if he has things we can sell.”
    A moving truck rumbled down the street and screeched to a stop at the Aldens’ driveway. “Best Movers” was painted on the side. Violet thought the truck needed a good washing. She guessed someone else did, too, because Wash Me was written in the dust on the side of the truck.
    “Hey,” called the driver, waving a piece of paper, “any of you kids know where …” he squinted at the paper, “… where …” he squinted harder, “where I can find 332 Locust?”
    “Sure,” said Henry, pointing. “That’s two blocks over and one block down.”
    “Thanks.” The driver squinted at Violet’s pitcher. “Is that lemonade?”
    “Ice cold,” said Henry. “Twenty-five cents a cup.”
    “I’ll take two,” said the driver. “Driving this rig is thirsty work. Can’t wait to drive up to Minnesota where it’s nice and cool.”
    Violet poured the lemonade. The driver chugged the first cupful without taking even one breath.
    “Are new people moving in on Locust?” asked Jessie, hoping for another twelve-year-old girl to play with.
    “Nope,” said the driver, “moving out, to Minneapolis.” He finished the second cup as quickly as the first. “Boy, that sure hit the spot. Thanks.” He handed Violet a dollar. “Keep the change.”
    Benny watched the truck drive away. He seemed deep in thought. Suddenly, he turned to the others. “We’ve got to get over there,” he said.
    “Where?” asked Henry.
    “332 Locust.”
    “Why?”
    “Because, when people move, they throw out all kinds of great stuff. Stuff they don’t want to take with them.”
    “So?” asked Violet.
    “Maybe we’ll find things to sell at our yard sale!”
    “Good thinking,” said Henry. “I’ll come with you, but first we need to put all of our things inside the garage in case it rains again.”
    “I’ll bring the wagon with us to Locust Street,” said Jessie as she unloaded her signs.
    The children quickly brought the few items they hadn’t sold into the garage and began to walk towards Locust.
    Violet lagged behind. Warning shivers tickled her spine. Some of those big old houses on Locust looked creepy.
    Jessie stopped at the corner and looked back. “Violet,” she called, waving, “hurry up.”
    “C-c-coming,” said Violet, running after them, wondering just what sort