Harry Cat's Pet Puppy by George Selden Read Free Book Online Page B

city lay frozen, glistening under the futile sun, still—as if bewitched by a sorcerer’s winter spell.
    The cold crept all the way down to the drainpipe. Tucker Mouse, who’d taken to sleeping in Huppy’s house, shivered under four layers of newspapers. Harry wrapped himself in the piece of red flannel shirt. “Those two dogs had better be holed up!” said Tucker. “Otherwise, they’ll be frozen to death.”

    â€œThey’re holed up,” Harry hoped.
    â€œAnd what about Lulu? Why doesn’t she fly over here and tell us what’s happening?”
    â€œShe’s probably down in that antique shop, buried under some moldy cushions right now.”
    â€œThat kookoo bird,” grumbled the mouse, and rubbed his ears to prevent frostbite.
    By Monday—“I’ve had it!” shouted Tucker. In a flurry of ripped newspaper he jumped out of the card-board box. “Let me out of here, Harry! I’m going stir-crazy!”
    â€œI don’t feel exactly like a June bug jumping around Central Park myself!” said Harry.
    But it wasn’t until Tuesday that the frigid enchantment was broken. The chill air seemed to breathe and come alive again. From the street above sounded gigantic scraping, as trucks with snowplows attached to their fronts did their final work. There was clanking, too, of iron chains: the last stalled snow-covered cars were being hauled away from the curb. The gutter would be clear tonight. In the afternoon a neater, nearer rustling told the animals that the sidewalk at last had been shoveled out. Their exit hole was free. Mama and Papa Bellini opened their newsstand in time for the evening rush, and most important—it seemed like fate to Harry Cat—Mr. Smedley dropped by to chat with them about the big blizzard.
    â€œOkay—this is it,” said the cat.
    â€œThis is what?”
    â€œTonight you go down to Bryant Park.”
    â€œ I go down!” exclaimed Tucker. “And what, might I ask—”
    â€œI’m following Mr. Smedley.”
    â€œWhat? What?” the mouse dithered. “We’ve got to have a plan.”
    â€œI’m telling you the plan,” said Harry. “You go to the park—I’m pretty sure Huppy’ll be there tonight, he must know how much we’re worried about him—say hello, by the way, for me—and I’m shadowing Smedley. We’ve got to find out how the land lies, don’t we?”
    â€œBut—but—”
    â€œNo buts!”
    â€œâ€”he may live in the Bronx.”
    â€œThen I’m going to the Bronx! Watch out—he’s leaving. Have a good supper, Mousiekins. Stay here till most of the traffic dies down—and don’t bother waiting up for me. I’ve got a feeling this may take a long time.”
    The cat chose his moment, then disappeared amidst hurrying, random feet.
    *   *   *
    Tucker Mouse got back from his travels at three o’clock the next morning. (To be exact, 3:05: the numbers on his watch were luminous and shed a nice glow at the back of the pipe.) His home was empty. Despite what Harry had said, the mouse decided that he would wait up. After what he’d seen and heard in the past three hours, sleep was out of the question now. And when Tucker waited, he really waited. He paced, he rearranged, he stared out angrily into the subway station. There are some poor people for whom waiting is harder work than working, and Tucker Mouse was such a one.
    Occasionally he took time out from his waiting to fume. “Blood,” he muttered to himself. “Hooligan!” His face pinched into a grimace as he mouthed two words: “Tucker baby!” Then he began to wait again, more intensely than before.
    By that afternoon he was tired out and had to lie down. It didn’t help. It only transferred all the useless activity inside his head.
    He was so preoccupied—like a stretched