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Authors: Zilpha Keatley Snyder
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his face. And suddenly Gib was struggling to keep his own face from showing his shock and horror. Georgie was almost unrecognizable. If it hadn’t been for his long rabbity upper lip and pale white-lashed blue eyes, Gib might have taken him for a stranger. A stranger whose face had shriveled to a sharp-edged skull except where swollen, scaly patches of frostbite blotched his nose and cheeks.
“Gib? Bobby? Oh, Gib, please help me. Help me hide.” Georgie’s high-pitched voice quavered tearfully and he reached out toward Gib with both bandaged arms.
Before Gib could respond, Bobby asked, “What happened, Georgie? What’s wrong with your hands?”
Georgie looked down at his own outstretched arms and a new kind of horror crept across his face. “They’re going to cut them off,” he whispered. “Both of them. Mister said they were going to cut off both my hands. So when he stopped at the store I jumped out and ran. I didn’t know where to go so I came here and ...
“Why?” Gib tried to keep the horror out of his voice. “Why would they cut off your hands?”
Georgie stared at his hands and tried to answer, but at first his chattering teeth and trembling lips blurred the sounds. As his voice steadied, Gib was able to make out what he was saying. “... Mister said he’d learn me to take care of my mittens. Said I always lose them, but I don’t. The dog took them. I know he did, but Mister wouldn’t believe me. He whipped me like always, and then he said I had to do the east pasture anyways. Mittens or no mittens.”
Gib shook his head in wonder. “Do the east pasture?” he asked.
Georgie nodded. “Weather like this, he sleds hay out to the stock. Four bales this time, he said. You got to harness the mule and load the hay on the sled and drive way out there and—and ... Georgie’s voice died away as he stared down at his bandaged hands. “It was so cold the hay hooks stuck to my skin. When I got back my hands was froze. Missus put water on them—it hurt real bad—and then she told Mister he had to take me to the doctor. He said naw, he wouldn’t neither. Said I was no good, and he didn’t care if I froze solid—but then, when Missus started out to get the buggy, he said, ‘All right, goddammit, I’ll do it.’
“‘You get on back in the house,’ he told Missus. ‘I’ll take him.’ But then, in the buggy, he told me he’d seen hands like mine afore and they’d have to cut them off. Both of them. So, soon as I got the chance, I ran.”
Georgie’s tears mingled with a yellowish liquid that oozed from the dark, swollen patches on his cheeks and nose. He held out his bandaged hands as if he were praying. “Don’t tell on me,” he begged. “Please don’t tell I’m here.”
Gib’s own eyes were hot and wet and he couldn’t find his voice, but Bobby was saying, “But you can’t stay here, Georgie. Someone always comes out to see if we did a good job. Buster comes mostly—but sometimes it’s Mr. Harding. He’ll see you.”
“Yeah.” Gib’s voice had suddenly returned. He looked around. “Come on, Bobby. We’ll make him a bed in the tack room while we finish up here and then—”
“And then what ? And then what are you planning to do, Whittaker?” The voice was hard and sharp and only too familiar. It belonged to Mr. Harding.
Chapter 12
O F COURSE IT WAS Mr. Harding. Gib should have known it would be. It explained why the job of cleaning the barn and stable had been given to a crew of only two boys. Harding knew they wouldn’t be able to finish in time. It usually took a three-man crew even in good weather, and during a blizzard it should have been four or five. So the job would be skimped on and that meant that Harding would have another excuse to beat the tar out of somebody. That had been his plan, sure enough, and it might have worked that way except for Georgie Olson’s showing up and changing things some. The next thing Mr. Harding said was that they were all
“Gib? Bobby? Oh, Gib, please help me. Help me hide.” Georgie’s high-pitched voice quavered tearfully and he reached out toward Gib with both bandaged arms.
Before Gib could respond, Bobby asked, “What happened, Georgie? What’s wrong with your hands?”
Georgie looked down at his own outstretched arms and a new kind of horror crept across his face. “They’re going to cut them off,” he whispered. “Both of them. Mister said they were going to cut off both my hands. So when he stopped at the store I jumped out and ran. I didn’t know where to go so I came here and ...
“Why?” Gib tried to keep the horror out of his voice. “Why would they cut off your hands?”
Georgie stared at his hands and tried to answer, but at first his chattering teeth and trembling lips blurred the sounds. As his voice steadied, Gib was able to make out what he was saying. “... Mister said he’d learn me to take care of my mittens. Said I always lose them, but I don’t. The dog took them. I know he did, but Mister wouldn’t believe me. He whipped me like always, and then he said I had to do the east pasture anyways. Mittens or no mittens.”
Gib shook his head in wonder. “Do the east pasture?” he asked.
Georgie nodded. “Weather like this, he sleds hay out to the stock. Four bales this time, he said. You got to harness the mule and load the hay on the sled and drive way out there and—and ... Georgie’s voice died away as he stared down at his bandaged hands. “It was so cold the hay hooks stuck to my skin. When I got back my hands was froze. Missus put water on them—it hurt real bad—and then she told Mister he had to take me to the doctor. He said naw, he wouldn’t neither. Said I was no good, and he didn’t care if I froze solid—but then, when Missus started out to get the buggy, he said, ‘All right, goddammit, I’ll do it.’
“‘You get on back in the house,’ he told Missus. ‘I’ll take him.’ But then, in the buggy, he told me he’d seen hands like mine afore and they’d have to cut them off. Both of them. So, soon as I got the chance, I ran.”
Georgie’s tears mingled with a yellowish liquid that oozed from the dark, swollen patches on his cheeks and nose. He held out his bandaged hands as if he were praying. “Don’t tell on me,” he begged. “Please don’t tell I’m here.”
Gib’s own eyes were hot and wet and he couldn’t find his voice, but Bobby was saying, “But you can’t stay here, Georgie. Someone always comes out to see if we did a good job. Buster comes mostly—but sometimes it’s Mr. Harding. He’ll see you.”
“Yeah.” Gib’s voice had suddenly returned. He looked around. “Come on, Bobby. We’ll make him a bed in the tack room while we finish up here and then—”
“And then what ? And then what are you planning to do, Whittaker?” The voice was hard and sharp and only too familiar. It belonged to Mr. Harding.
Chapter 12
O F COURSE IT WAS Mr. Harding. Gib should have known it would be. It explained why the job of cleaning the barn and stable had been given to a crew of only two boys. Harding knew they wouldn’t be able to finish in time. It usually took a three-man crew even in good weather, and during a blizzard it should have been four or five. So the job would be skimped on and that meant that Harding would have another excuse to beat the tar out of somebody. That had been his plan, sure enough, and it might have worked that way except for Georgie Olson’s showing up and changing things some. The next thing Mr. Harding said was that they were all
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