The Seventeenth Swap by Eloise McGraw Read Free Book Online

let ’er sell ’em on commission. I’ve even known her offer to buy. See this here little tool-carrier I keep my screwdrivers in?” He half-turned, lifted a small wooden tray by the fingerholes in its central divider. “She’s been ahter me to name my price for that ever since I carried it to her place once to put up some shelves. But I said, “No, Ma’am.” My pa made that for hisself before we ever come to this country. It’ll be mine until I die. Care for a cuppa, son? I’m about to put me antique kettle on.”
    â€œI’d like to—but I’ve got to get home,” Eric told him, hurriedly gathering up his books after a glance at Cholly’s battered clock. “Maybe Saturday, if you’re here?”
    â€œAny time, no need for no engraved invitation. See you around, then.”
    â€œSee you, Cholly. And thanks!” Eric called back as he stepped outside. Cholly might not know it, but he’d given his usual valuable advice without hearing even a word about the boots.

4
The Hobbyhorse Shop
    After his homework was done that night Eric turned his ring binder upside down so that the first page was the back page, and studied his lists again.
    They looked shorter than he remembered, even with the few items he had added so confidently at school, when he was just getting started on his research. Those were probably worthless. He somehow felt much less sanguine now about finding old license plates for Chris Donaldson’s grandpa, or old radios and records for Melinda Jones’s. He had no idea where one might come across such things. Reluctant but realistic, he drew a line through both items.
    There remained that note he had scrawled about Ms. Larkin wishing she had a Just-So Stories like Dad’s. He liked Ms. Larkin. She was such an enthusiastic sort of lady, and always had time to answer your questions. He’d often thought of mentioning to her that his dad used to be a librarian, too. But he’d never done it. She’d be bound to ask where Dad worked now, and what had happened, and how he could give up library work afterall that training, and a lot of other questions of whose answers Eric had never been quite sure.
    Anyway he’d like her to have the kind of Just-So Stories she wanted. The question was, would Dad want to give his up? Eric wasn’t sure he should even ask. Dad had owned that book since he was a little kid—somebody had written “Happy Eighth Birthday to Mitchie” in the front. He’d hung onto it all these years. On the other hand, he never read it now, and Eric could plainly hear Ms. Larkin saying, “Oh, what I’d give for a good copy of that edition!” What if she’d give five dollars? Even ten?
    Eric jumped up from his desk, went into the living room to the makeshift bookshelves, and found the old gray book with its raveled, familiar spine, which he had helped wear out. Hesitantly he opened it and riffled through the pages, creating a little breeze on his face that smelled of ageing paper and memories. Then he stopped abruptly at the beginning of “The Elephant’s Child”, which had once started, like all the other stories, with a huge, fancy capital letter enclosed in a decorative square. Now it started with a hole—a slightly ragged squarish hole cut right out of the page long ago by Dad himself. There were holes in half the other beginning pages—how could he have forgotten that? Dad had sheepishly confessed—warning Eric never to mutilate books—that he’d used the fancy initials in some school assignment that had seemed terribly important at the time. He’d had to recall for Eric—or invent—the square of missing words on the other side of those pages, until Eric knew the stories so well he could do it for himself. Eric returned the volume to the shelf, secretly relieved. He and Dad could keep theirfavorite book. Ms. Larkin wanted a