Read Online The Four-Story Mistake by Elizabeth Enright - Free Book Online Page A

jackass to try it,” Rush admonished himself. “You’d break something or other, and first thing you know Mona’d be practicing her first aid on you. Not much.”
    The next thing was to yell.
    He leaned far out and shouted in the direction of the house. “Cuffy!” brayed Rush. “Oh, WILL-ee!”
    But the wind and the woods were roaring like the entire Atlantic Ocean. Rush might have been a cricket chirping in a wilderness. He had yelled so hard and long that his already sore throat began to ache unbearably, and, discouraged, he sat down again on the platform, his back against the oak. There was nothing to do but wait. “Maybe I’ll die up here; starve to death,” he mumbled, feeling sorry for himself; but the absurdity of the statement was apparent even to him. Sooner or later somebody would come. But by that time I’ll be dead of exposure, Rush thought. That wasn’t so amusing. The wind howled about him, cold and violent, and only the fever in his veins kept him warm. “I probably really will get pneumonia now,” he said, with a sort of triumphant gloom.
    Far away, between leaves and branches, he could see the small, glittering lights of the house. They came and went, fitfully; a constellation of fireflies. Inside the house the family would be eating supper now—warm, cozy, and protected, not caring that he was alone, cold, shut out in the storm. Why didn’t they come and find him? But there was a good answer to that, and Rush knew what it was. The answer was a pillow buried in a lifelike lump under the blankets of his bed. “You don’t get away with much in this world,” observed Rush profoundly.
    Oh it was a wild night. The oak was racked with wind: it creaked and groaned in all its limbs; cold leaves flew at Rush like bats. Overhead the torn, moon-filtered clouds raced hauntedly across the sky. What a howling, tossing, frenzied world it was! Too bad it’s not Halloween, he thought. Anybody could believe in witches tonight. But Halloween had come and gone a week ago, mild as a lamb.
    He shook with chill and burned with fever by turns. Against the darkness strange patterns flamed and were gone; fiery pinwheels, dancing stars, geometrical designs outlined in colored light; all the fantastic figures of a fevered imagination. Rush watched them with his teeth chattering. The Brahms Rhapsody galloped interminably through his mind in tune with the wild night. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to play it again, he thought, without feeling sick.
    At half past eight the rain began. It was violent, like the wind, coming in great bursts and waves, cold and heavy as water pouring over a dam. He huddled against the tree, his head on his knees, his arms around his head; he had never been so wretched in his life. There was nothing left in the whole world but noise, and water, and confusion. This is how a soldier feels, Rush thought, far away in a foreign land; hiding in the dark and rain, waiting to fight. Somehow the thought made him feel braver. After all, he was lucky: there was no enemy searching for him, at least.
    In the warm living room of the house the fire hissed and crackled; a log caved in, sending up a shower of sparks. Mona sighed over her Latin, and Randy sighed over her English grammar. Isaac whimpered in his sleep. There was no sound from Oliver; he had gone to bed long ago.
    Cuffy put down her mending.
    â€œPoor Rush,” she said. “He’s been sleeping all day. He ought to have some hot lemonade.”
    â€œI’ll make it, Cuffy,” Mona offered, glad to escape from her homework. “You go and see how he is.”
    Cuffy tiptoed up the stairs and opened Rush’s door. She stood there in the rectangle of light cast by the hall lamp, and listened. Gracious, how still the child was! There was no sound of deep, even breathing; no restless stirring against the pillow. She frowned and went quickly over to the