thinking about it. And in his head, Mr. Stumbleweed guessed jewelry. Maybe the family’s heirlooms: emeralds, rubies, opals, and other expensive baubles.
When the two left the bank, the clock over Mr. Stumbleweed’s window said 2:34:41:09 p.m., or a little after two thirty.
NILLY WOKE UP and stretched. Which is to say, he tried to stretch, but it wasn’t so easy to accomplish where he was. He twisted and looked at the numbers on his watch
glowing in the silent darkness: 2:40 p.m. In other words, a little more after two thirty. It was time to get to work. But getting up wasn’t exactly easy. He was lying scrunched up in
something that wasn’t much bigger than a shoe box, and one of his feet had fallen asleep. He fumbled around underneath him with his hand until he found what he was looking for. One of the
keys, the reserve key, to the safety-deposit box. He managed to stick it into the keyhole from the inside, twisted it, and opened it cautiously. Then he squeezed his body out the opening. Once he
was free, he jumped. He tried to land softly, but he’d forgotten that one of his feet was asleep, so he ended up collapsing onto the concrete floor.
He lay there for a bit, looking up at the open safety-deposit box above him. And he thought that every once in a while—
once in a while
—it wasn’t so bad to be the
smallest boy anyone had ever seen.
He stood up, but his foot was still asleep and was like limp spaghetti under him, so he had to sit back down. He looked at his watch again. 2:43. He had exactly seventeen minutes until the
appointed time. He pulled a little bottle out of his pocket: DOCTOR PROCTOR’S FROST FLUID . He opened the bottle and downed the contents. Then he made a face and
reminded himself to ask the professor to add a little more sugar next time.
Then he stood up again, and this time his foot held him, if only just barely.
He turned right down the hallway the way they’d planned, and sure enough: The hallway turned twice to the left and then once to the right, just like in the diagram. He heard a whirring
noise that was steadily getting louder, and he realized he was getting closer. And there—at the end of the hallway—he saw something on the wall that looked like a normal light switch.
But he knew it wasn’t. Nilly stopped suddenly. Even though he couldn’t see anything, just an empty hallway, he knew that there, right in front of him, lurked an invisible threat. Nilly
took out the cigar he’d gotten from Alfie Crunch, lit it with the lighter he’d gotten from Doctor Proctor, and steeled himself. Then he inhaled the smoke and exhaled quickly and
vigorously, straight in front of him.
And then he could see them.
The laser beams.
He inhaled and exhaled several more times, until the space in front of him was full of smoke and he could see the whole pattern the beams made. They were coming from the walls, the floor, and
the ceiling and formed a thorny thicket so thick and dense that it would be impossible for even the smallest boy anyone had ever seen to make it through without touching one of the beams. He could
only just barely see the switch on the other side through the web of laser beams.
But there
was
a tiny little opening there.
Nilly checked his watch. Fourteen minutes left. He plunged his hand down into his other pants pocket and pulled up the blue aiming mitten and the three darts, put on the mitten, and aimed
through the opening.
He threw.
THUNK!
The dart made it through the thicket but missed the switch by half an inch.
Nilly grabbed dart number two.
It was not particularly warm in the bank basement, and yet he felt sweat trickling down his back. The dart was trembling in his hand.
“Come on, Nilly,” he whispered to himself, and threw.
THUNK!
The dart was stuck in the wall a hairbreadth from the switch, vibrating. But it had bumped the first dart as it went in, and Nilly could see the yellow end of that first dart slowly starting to
sag.
It was
When the two left the bank, the clock over Mr. Stumbleweed’s window said 2:34:41:09 p.m., or a little after two thirty.
NILLY WOKE UP and stretched. Which is to say, he tried to stretch, but it wasn’t so easy to accomplish where he was. He twisted and looked at the numbers on his watch
glowing in the silent darkness: 2:40 p.m. In other words, a little more after two thirty. It was time to get to work. But getting up wasn’t exactly easy. He was lying scrunched up in
something that wasn’t much bigger than a shoe box, and one of his feet had fallen asleep. He fumbled around underneath him with his hand until he found what he was looking for. One of the
keys, the reserve key, to the safety-deposit box. He managed to stick it into the keyhole from the inside, twisted it, and opened it cautiously. Then he squeezed his body out the opening. Once he
was free, he jumped. He tried to land softly, but he’d forgotten that one of his feet was asleep, so he ended up collapsing onto the concrete floor.
He lay there for a bit, looking up at the open safety-deposit box above him. And he thought that every once in a while—
once in a while
—it wasn’t so bad to be the
smallest boy anyone had ever seen.
He stood up, but his foot was still asleep and was like limp spaghetti under him, so he had to sit back down. He looked at his watch again. 2:43. He had exactly seventeen minutes until the
appointed time. He pulled a little bottle out of his pocket: DOCTOR PROCTOR’S FROST FLUID . He opened the bottle and downed the contents. Then he made a face and
reminded himself to ask the professor to add a little more sugar next time.
Then he stood up again, and this time his foot held him, if only just barely.
He turned right down the hallway the way they’d planned, and sure enough: The hallway turned twice to the left and then once to the right, just like in the diagram. He heard a whirring
noise that was steadily getting louder, and he realized he was getting closer. And there—at the end of the hallway—he saw something on the wall that looked like a normal light switch.
But he knew it wasn’t. Nilly stopped suddenly. Even though he couldn’t see anything, just an empty hallway, he knew that there, right in front of him, lurked an invisible threat. Nilly
took out the cigar he’d gotten from Alfie Crunch, lit it with the lighter he’d gotten from Doctor Proctor, and steeled himself. Then he inhaled the smoke and exhaled quickly and
vigorously, straight in front of him.
And then he could see them.
The laser beams.
He inhaled and exhaled several more times, until the space in front of him was full of smoke and he could see the whole pattern the beams made. They were coming from the walls, the floor, and
the ceiling and formed a thorny thicket so thick and dense that it would be impossible for even the smallest boy anyone had ever seen to make it through without touching one of the beams. He could
only just barely see the switch on the other side through the web of laser beams.
But there
was
a tiny little opening there.
Nilly checked his watch. Fourteen minutes left. He plunged his hand down into his other pants pocket and pulled up the blue aiming mitten and the three darts, put on the mitten, and aimed
through the opening.
He threw.
THUNK!
The dart made it through the thicket but missed the switch by half an inch.
Nilly grabbed dart number two.
It was not particularly warm in the bank basement, and yet he felt sweat trickling down his back. The dart was trembling in his hand.
“Come on, Nilly,” he whispered to himself, and threw.
THUNK!
The dart was stuck in the wall a hairbreadth from the switch, vibrating. But it had bumped the first dart as it went in, and Nilly could see the yellow end of that first dart slowly starting to
sag.
It was
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