The kid stood, hands in pockets, looking at the Buick. Then he knelt down and tried to peer in through the cracked windows. His face was only inches from Rory. Rory was pretty sure he couldn't see through into the darkness. To Rory, looking out into the light, the boy's head was a giant dark blob. Then the boy turned toward the Buick's suspended hood. Expecting the worst, Rory slipped quickly out. He wished he had some kind of weapon. The boy paused to stare at the ground, then touched something there in the mud. What was he looking at? Rory maneuvered around until he could see the ground, too.
The kid was staring at footprints! Rory's own flappin' footprints right there in the mud! The boy looked, then bent down to touch Rory's footprint with his finger. Then he cupped his hands and reached in toward the paper and rags Rory had piled in front of the plane as if he expected to catch an animal running out—the animal that had made those prints. All of a sudden he jerked the papers away, tensed to catch something—and stopped cold.
Drat! He's found my plane! Oh the flappin' dratted luck! He's found it and he'll be off with it sure as heck! Rory stared past the boy's pant legs at the plane, and in his moment of anguish he imagined her all shiny new and saw himself in the cockpit—drat the kid! He looked around for something to throw, anything.
"My gosh!" The kid breathed out loud. "My gosh, it's an old biplane, an old gas burner! Look at that engine!" He reached out to touch the engine and the tiny spark plug, much as Rory had done. "I've never even seen an engine like that. How long has this plane been here?" Kneeling under the Buick, the boy stared up at the hood over his head. "Well I've never seen the Buick, it's been dumped since spring vacation and I'll bet the plane has, too!"
Rory picked up some small bits of metal and pebbles from among the junk scattered around him. If the kid had turned around he'd have seen him, but he was so desperate now he didn't care. All he could think of was that lovely plane, his plane, of sitting in the cockpit. Of the propeller spinning and the plane lifting into the sky with him in command, flying between clouds, free on the wind . . . The boy was pulling more paper and rags away, examining the plane closely. "Man, I bet that engine's worth plenty." He took hold of the plane and began to lift her out.
Rory slung his pawful of pebbles as hard as he could at the boy's backside.
The kid dropped the plane like he'd been burned. He looked all around. But he saw nothing, and finally, puzzled but determined, he reached in again for the plane and this time he lifted it out.
Rory was beside himself. It's my plane, you dratted kid! he thought frantically. You can't have her! He wanted to shout, but he kept quiet. He picked up the biggest rock he could find and slipped around to where he could throw at an angle and not hurt the plane. And he let fly. He hit the boy in the side of the knee, and the boy yelped and jumped up, still clutching the plane.
Rory made sure he was well-hidden. If he didn't show himself, he just might be able to scare the daylights out of the kid. The boy knelt and picked up the rock that had hit him and stared all around trying to see where it had come from. This kid wasn't going to scare easy. There was only one other way Rory could think of to really scare him, and he hesitated to try that. The boy put the rock in his pocket and started down the path with the plane. I'm asking for trouble, Rory thought as he cupped his paws around his mouth. But in final desperation he made his voice as deep and loud as he could.
"Get your grubby hands off that plane!"
The kid froze.
Rory cupped his paws again. "Put that plane down, you little thief! Put it back where you found it!"
Now the boy looked scared. He knelt to put the plane back. Then all of a sudden he seemed to change his mind. He straightened up and stared around him, scowling. Then suddenly he shouted, "If you want this plane, come get it! I'm not leaving it for some coward who's too chicken to show himself!"
Drat the kid!
"Well?" If the boy was scared now, he didn't show it. He looked as angry as Rory felt. "Okay," he shouted at last, "If you won't talk and won't come out then it's my plane!" He started down the path again carrying the little biplane, carrying Rory's dream away with him.
Rory was so furious his tail twitched convulsively. What was he going to do? And then with sudden inspiration he shouted, "If you don't put it down, I'll toss this fat lemming of yours onto the garbage dump for the birds to peck, and I'll ram this cage over your head!"
The boy spun around, looking for the source of the voice.
"Are you going to put that plane back or am I going to take this lemming and . . ."
Hastily the boy set the plane back underneath the Buick, then stood defiantly in the center of the path. "Okay, give me the cage! Show yourself and give me the cage—if you have it! Just bring it on out here. And you'd better not hurt the lemming."
Rory knew if he didn't produce the cage the kid was going to take the plane anyway, and of course he didn't even have the cage. He had to distract the boy further.
"Where's my cage, you coward! You're bluffing!"
"I ain't bluffing, sonny!" Rory shouted. "You can—" but before Rory could finish, the boy dove across the path toward the tomato can, kicked the can aside, and snatched Rory up by the tail.
"I thought your voice was coming from there!" he said triumphantly as Rory dangled upside down, his pack flapping from his shoulders. All the blood was rushing to his head.
The boy stood dangling him and gawking. He examined Rory's tail, which he still held in a tight grip. He pulled out one hind leg and studied it. He was really very nosy. He peered into Rory's face and Rory scowled back at him. "Boy!" he said at last, "I never saw an animal like you in my whole life! And how come you're wearing a pack?" He fingered the pack and tried to look inside. Rory twisted away, indignant. "Well say something!" the boy said. "It was you talking, don't deny it!" He brought his face close to Rory's, looking into Rory's eyes. "Say something or I'll shake the life out of you!"
Rory was getting pretty dizzy with hanging upside down. The straps on his pack were cutting into his armpits. "Put me down, you little varmint, or I'll flip over and take a bite out of your hand that'll look like a major finger amputation!"
"If I put you down, you'll run off!"
Rory flipped over and had the kid's wrist in both paws and his mouth open to bite when the kid dropped him. He hit the ground on his big feet, thought of running, but knew if he did he'd lose the plane. Reluctantly, furiously, he turned to face the boy square on. "All right you little whelp, are you going to leave of your own accord or am I going to jump up and bite your nose for you?" Rory leaped right at the kid's face to demonstrate, and the surprised boy nearly fell over backward.
When Rory stood on the ground again, staring up, the boy just gaped down at him. "Well," Rory repeated, "are you going to leave my plane alone . . ." He made ready to jump again.
"No, wait," the boy said. "Wait a minute." He just kept staring at Rory. "This is crazy! I don't believe this! You're wearing a pack, and you're talking!"
"So?"
"And—whatever you are—what makes you think that's your plane? Stuff in the dump is anyone's property. Finders—oh!" He frowned at Rory. "You mean you'd already found it?"
"That's right, sonny. I'd found it. I claim salvage rights on it, and that makes it my plane all right!"
The boy didn't seem frightened any more. He was . . . was he smiling? Great flappin' rattlesnakes! The dumb kid was grinning at him! "What're you laughing at!" Rory almost screamed. "What d'you think's so funny!"