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

with a vague pattern of paler lines. It seemed to have little to recommend it.
    â€œPetoshkey shtone. Nah polished,” said Mr. Evans with a shrug of his massive, rounded shoulders. “Buh kind unushal. Y’know? Goddin Mishgan.”
    â€œUh—what?” The translation was getting a bit beyond Eric.
    Mr. Evans fumbled in his shirt pocket and clapped his hand to his mouth. Then he repeated clearly, “It’s a Petoskey stone. I got a couple of ’em in Michigan, two-three years ago when I went back to see my brother. ‘At’s where they come from, Michigan. Here. I’ll show you somethin’.” Beckoning with a sausagelike finger,he lumbered over to the window and dipped the finger into a lidless teapot standing on the sill beside a rather straggly geranium. Bringing it up wet, he wiped it gently across the surface of the stone, then displayed the result with a small, triumphant smile.
    â€œHey, neat!” exclaimed Eric. Where the water had touched it, the stone had darkened to a rich brown-gray, against which the paler lines now showed up dramatically as an over-all network pattern, exactly as though the stone was encased in a little mesh bag. It really was unusual.
    â€œYou spray ’em with hair spray, they’ll stay like that,” said Mr. Evans. “ ’Swat my brother says. I never tried it myself. Or a-course you can polish ’em if you want. They’re a gem rock. Usta make buttons out of ’em.”
    â€œIt’s a good swap!” Eric assured him earnestly. “I’ve got to go to school now, but I’ll—I’ll let you know.”
    â€œOkay. You know where to find me.” Mr. Evans gave a nod and an amiable wave. When Eric glanced back from the outside door, he was putting his teeth back in his shirt pocket.
    Next on the agenda—Angel. Provided she wasn’t taking off right after school with one of her yakking-partners. Eric worked his way impatiently through the day, left promptly at 3:32, then dawdled. Shortly afterwards Angel emerged from the school building and started down Rivershore as usual. He let her catch up with him at the Lake Street light and, before she had a chance to start talking, asked her if she’d ever seen a Petoskey stone.
    â€œA what?”
    â€œA Petoskey stone. It’s a real interesting kind of rock with—”
    â€œNo. Listen, guess what? Debbie Clark’s cat has got four of the cutest little kittens you ever saw! One’s white, and one’s stripey, and one’s calico, and one’s gray with white feet and a little white bib, but she’s got to give them away because her mother says one cat is more than enough, and I was going to take the little gray one, but my mother says—”
    It was just no use. Nobody but one of Angel’s chosen best friends was up to her weight when it came to a talking match. It had been a slim chance anyway—Angel really didn’t seem the type to need a Petoskey stone. Reverting to his usual role of one-ear listener, Eric began to wonder who would. A Petoskey stone had a good deal to offer, it seemed to him. It was interesting, and pretty, and not just your ordinary sort of rock at all. You could show it to people. You could use it to start conversations—or weight things down—or crack nuts—or—
    â€œSo what d’you think—should I go ahead or not?” Angel demanded, and waited anxiously for his reply.
    â€œWell, uh—” said Eric, but he’d completely lost the thread. That was always the moment she asked her questions; her timing was infallible. “You mean—about the kitten, or—”
    â€œKitten?”
    â€œWell, I was thinking about something else,” Eric told her crossly. He had a notion he’d just passed a pretty good idea, an instant before she’d interrupted him. Now he couldn’t remember what it was. “What did you ask