snarling and snapping with even greater fury, convinced Boney had thrown the cutlery.
“Snuff, no!” Squeak yelled as Boney kicked and cursed, until all at once he grabbed the Blaster and fired, sending the surprised dog skittering with a yelp down Escape Hatch #3.
“Snuff!” Itchy cried, looking down the hole where the dog had disappeared. But there was only a puff of dirt in the air where Snuff had hit the ground.
“There he goes!” Squeak said, pointing down the street to where Snuff was running furiously toward home.
The boys gazed around the clubhouse. It looked as though a small tornado had touched down.
“Perhaps Snuff isn’t the best mascot for us after all,” Squeak conceded.
Boney looked at his torn pants in disgust. “He puta hole in my cuff. You know he hates me, Squeak. Why would you even try to bring him up here?”
“I was hoping he could get to know you and you could be friends.”
Boney gestured with the Blaster. “We’ll never be friends.”
“Not if you keep shooting at him,” Squeak sniffed.
“He really isn’t good for much,” Itchy admitted.
Boney pulled himself up from the floor, securing the Blaster in his waistband. “Just forget about the whole mascot thing, Squeak. Look at this mess!”
The boys began cleaning the clubhouse, reaffixing the supply shelf to the wall with twice as many nails as before, organizing the cutlery drawer to its former condition, and checking the Apparator to make sure it hadn’t been damaged. They even found a piece of plastic and covered the reference library bookshelf, just in case. When they were done, Boney and Itchy collapsed on the clubhouse floor. Squeak continued to work on the Apparator.
“I can’t take it any more,” Itchy sighed. “First Larry Harry wrecks our lives, then my dad’s costume gets ruined, and now Snuff trashes our clubhouse.”
“I told you, we’re going to get Prisoner 95 once and for all,” Boney insisted.
“I don’t want to hear about it,” Itchy said. “Running after ghosts in spooky old haunted mills is crazy. We’ll just end up hurting ourselves, or getting beat up even worse than we already do.”
“We will need to go to the Old Mill,” Squeak said, grinning broadly, “because the Apparator is finished.” He tightened a screw on the handle, then held it up for the others to see. “Gentlemen, may I present the $500 prize-winning entry at this year’s Invention Convention.”
The Apparator glistened in the light, its black handle shining, its clear tube wrapped artfully in copper wire. On the handle was a small red switch and hand-painted letters that read “ The Apparator .”
“It looks great,” Boney said. “We can test it tonight.”
“I thought you were grounded for life,” Itchy said.
“I’ll ask for three helpings at dinner tonight, if I have to. My aunt will let me do anything after that.”
Itchy folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t care. I’m not going to the mill.”
“Fine,” Boney said. “Stay here by yourself. But don’t cry to us when the mail thief comes looking for you.”
Itchy’s mouth flapped up and down in futile protest. “This is so unfair.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE BIG TEST
T hat night, the Odds rode in a tight group toward the mill: Boney on his metallic-blue Schwinn, Squeak swerving with his goggle vision on his red Raleigh cruiser, and Itchy on his mom’s old green CCM, complete with flowered grocery basket strapped to the handlebars. They wove through the darkened streets, punching in and out of the lamplight until the lights disappeared and the street turned to gravel. When they reached the top of the hill leading to the Old Mill the boys skidded to a stop, the dust kicking up in little clouds around their bikes.
“Now remember,” Boney said, “we keep our bikes close, just in case anything goes wrong.”
Squeak nodded. Itchy gulped.
Boney pushed off with his foot, coasting his Schwinn slowly toward the stone ruins. Squeak and
“Snuff, no!” Squeak yelled as Boney kicked and cursed, until all at once he grabbed the Blaster and fired, sending the surprised dog skittering with a yelp down Escape Hatch #3.
“Snuff!” Itchy cried, looking down the hole where the dog had disappeared. But there was only a puff of dirt in the air where Snuff had hit the ground.
“There he goes!” Squeak said, pointing down the street to where Snuff was running furiously toward home.
The boys gazed around the clubhouse. It looked as though a small tornado had touched down.
“Perhaps Snuff isn’t the best mascot for us after all,” Squeak conceded.
Boney looked at his torn pants in disgust. “He puta hole in my cuff. You know he hates me, Squeak. Why would you even try to bring him up here?”
“I was hoping he could get to know you and you could be friends.”
Boney gestured with the Blaster. “We’ll never be friends.”
“Not if you keep shooting at him,” Squeak sniffed.
“He really isn’t good for much,” Itchy admitted.
Boney pulled himself up from the floor, securing the Blaster in his waistband. “Just forget about the whole mascot thing, Squeak. Look at this mess!”
The boys began cleaning the clubhouse, reaffixing the supply shelf to the wall with twice as many nails as before, organizing the cutlery drawer to its former condition, and checking the Apparator to make sure it hadn’t been damaged. They even found a piece of plastic and covered the reference library bookshelf, just in case. When they were done, Boney and Itchy collapsed on the clubhouse floor. Squeak continued to work on the Apparator.
“I can’t take it any more,” Itchy sighed. “First Larry Harry wrecks our lives, then my dad’s costume gets ruined, and now Snuff trashes our clubhouse.”
“I told you, we’re going to get Prisoner 95 once and for all,” Boney insisted.
“I don’t want to hear about it,” Itchy said. “Running after ghosts in spooky old haunted mills is crazy. We’ll just end up hurting ourselves, or getting beat up even worse than we already do.”
“We will need to go to the Old Mill,” Squeak said, grinning broadly, “because the Apparator is finished.” He tightened a screw on the handle, then held it up for the others to see. “Gentlemen, may I present the $500 prize-winning entry at this year’s Invention Convention.”
The Apparator glistened in the light, its black handle shining, its clear tube wrapped artfully in copper wire. On the handle was a small red switch and hand-painted letters that read “ The Apparator .”
“It looks great,” Boney said. “We can test it tonight.”
“I thought you were grounded for life,” Itchy said.
“I’ll ask for three helpings at dinner tonight, if I have to. My aunt will let me do anything after that.”
Itchy folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t care. I’m not going to the mill.”
“Fine,” Boney said. “Stay here by yourself. But don’t cry to us when the mail thief comes looking for you.”
Itchy’s mouth flapped up and down in futile protest. “This is so unfair.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE BIG TEST
T hat night, the Odds rode in a tight group toward the mill: Boney on his metallic-blue Schwinn, Squeak swerving with his goggle vision on his red Raleigh cruiser, and Itchy on his mom’s old green CCM, complete with flowered grocery basket strapped to the handlebars. They wove through the darkened streets, punching in and out of the lamplight until the lights disappeared and the street turned to gravel. When they reached the top of the hill leading to the Old Mill the boys skidded to a stop, the dust kicking up in little clouds around their bikes.
“Now remember,” Boney said, “we keep our bikes close, just in case anything goes wrong.”
Squeak nodded. Itchy gulped.
Boney pushed off with his foot, coasting his Schwinn slowly toward the stone ruins. Squeak and
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