The Seventeenth Swap by Eloise McGraw Read Free Book Online Page A

“good copy.” This wasn’t it.
    Back to his desk, and the now even shorter lists. A careful review of his day did little to lengthen them, and less to match them up. He wished Marvin had been acquainted with a rock hound instead of a campaign-button collector—then somebody would want Steve’s thunderegg. As it was, he could only add, under
    THINGS PEOPLE WANT:
    Old campaign buttons (Mr. Forrester in meat dept.)
    Indian Head pennies (Frank)
    Antique Junk (Hobbyhorse Shop)
    Under THINGS PEOPLE WILL SWAP, he wrote,
    Re heeling job.
    Then, after a good deal of pencil nibbling and mental wandering around Mrs. Panek’s sitting room, he added,
    Antique junk?
    He stared at the lists with growing doubt. The final two items matched, but for all he knew, Mrs. Panek felt the same about her jumble of possessions as Missus Fawdiss did about her “pawt.” Sighing, he erased the heading of the second list and changed the “WILL” to “MIGHT.”
    That seemed to be all he could do until he talked to Angel again, and had a look at that Hobbyhorse Shop, so he shut the ring binder and went to bed.
    Leaping down the stairs next morning on his way to school, he saw Mr. Evans, the apartment manager,just backing out of his first-floor doorway like some large, round-shouldered turtle withdrawing from its hole. And suddenly he realized that he knew a rock hound himself. At least, he supposed Mr. Evans would qualify, though the rocks Eric had occasionally seen—and stumbled over—in his dim little living room seemed more like what you’d find in a magpie’s nest than a real “collection.” However. No harm in trying. Eric stopped at the foot of the stairs to say hello.
    Slowly, the way he did everything, Mr. Evans turned himself about, taking several little shuffling steps to get all the way around to face Eric, then nodded amiably. “Howdy, howdy. Nite day,” he mumbled. He usually didn’t wear his teeth except when you came to pay the rent, though he always kept them handy in his shirt pocket, for emergencies.
    â€œYeah, it is,” Eric agreed with a glance toward the two glass panels that flanked the front door. Sure enough, the sun was shining, though he’d been too preoccupied to notice. At the risk of being late to school, he seized the moment. “Mr. Evans, I was wondering—would you be interested in a thunderegg for your rock collection? Or have you already got one?”
    â€œHm? Mm. Shunderegg, eh? Mm. Gah a uncuh one. Nah wursh mush lesher cuh. You gah one you wanna geh riub?”
    Translating this with some difficulty, Eric said, “Not to get rid of, exactly. And it’s not mine yet—but I think I could get one from my friend, and it is a cut one. With the cut part polished. It’s real pretty, I’ve seen it.”
    â€œHm! Whasher pren wan borit? Prolly doo mush. I gahno money shpare.”
    â€œWell—maybe I could work out a swap. That is, if you had something . . .”
    â€œGah other rocksh. ’Shbow all.”
    Other rocks. That was his problem now, Eric reflected—finding somebody who wanted a rock. Well, he might be able to. You never knew. “What kind?” he asked Mr. Evans in a businesslike manner.
    â€œC’mon in. Ahshow ya.”
    Eric went in. Mr. Evans lived alone, so there was nobody to make him dust anything, or keep his rock collection from overflowing the windowsill, where it had apparently started, and creeping around the edges of the floor. He knew where everything was, though. After a considering glance around, he shuffled over to the corner behind his shabby easy chair, bent slowly, slowly, with one big knobby hand reaching out ever farther, and finally grasped something in the shadow. Then he reversed the process and eventually shuffled back to Eric, holding a rock the size and nearly the shape of a hockey puck in his palm. It was grayish, veined here and there