Read Online The Mostly True Adventures of Homer P. Figg by Rodman Philbrick - Free Book Online
Authors: Rodman Philbrick
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get there?” I ask. “I could sell you Bob. He’s a good old horse.”
Mr. Brewster smiles. “The animal is certainly old, I’ll grant thee that much. Never mind the cost of the journey, I’ll provide it gladly. And if I was not so urgently occupied here, I would accompany thee myself. But I dare not leave. Ebenezer Smelt may be gone, but there are like-minded men who will take his place.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say grandly. “Don’t you worry about Homer Figg!”
That makes Mrs. Bean roll her eyes, but at least she’s smiling again.
“No,” says Mr. Brewster. “I cannot in good conscience let thee proceed alone. I have arranged to have a young Methodist clergyman act as thy guardian. He will be supplied with sufficient funds to buy thy brother out of enlistment.”
It all sounds good to me. Better than good, because I get to see what a train looks like, and ride a steamship, and Harold gets out of the army. Then we’ll both come back to live with Mr. Brewster, and I’m pretty sure he won’t make us sleep in the barn.
Sitting in that warm and wonderful kitchen, it seems like all my dreams are about to come true. Of course if I’d known what was going to happen, I’d have taken Bob the horse, or my own two feet — anything but get on that train.
Trouble is, I had no more sense than a hungry mouse. I saw the cheese and never paid attention to the trap. Trap by the name of Willow.
The Reverend Webster B. Willow.
S OON AFTER BREAKFAST my new guardian shuffles into the drawing room, walking like he’s got something sticky on his boots that makes it hard to lift his feet from the floor. He’s tall and thin, with narrow shoulders not much wider than his head, and long skinny arms that shoot past his frayed cuffs. He’s wearing an old black frock coat, short at the waist, and trousers that shine at the knees, and a crooked stovepipe hat that bumps against the door frame as he enters the room.
“Pardon me, sirs!” he exclaims, blushing. “A thousand apologies! Oh dear, oh dear!”
Mr. Webster B. Willow don’t look much older than my brother, Harold. The fine blond hair on his narrow chin hasn’t decided if it wants to be a beard, and his eyes are so close together it looks like he’s studying his nose or trying to see around it. Mostly he seems to be upset about forgetting to take off his hat like a gentleman does when entering a house, and he looks like he wants to leave the room and try again.
“Never mind the hat, Webster,” says Mr. Brewster impatiently. “The hat is of no consequence. Come in, come in. I want thee to meet Homer Figg. He will be in thy charge.”
“Splendid, wonderful, how do you do, sir,” he says, grabbing my hand and shaking it without actually looking at me. “Wonderful opportunity! Splendid!”
He fidgets nervously with his dented hat while Mr. Brewster explains that we shall journey by train to Portland, and from there take an overnight steamship to New York.
“We can’t be exactly sure where or when Homer’s brother has been assigned,” Mr. Brewster says. “It is likely that all the new recruits will be sent to encampments in New York or New Jersey and from there dispatched to the field of battle. Is that clear?”
“Field of battle, yes,” says Mr. Willow.
“Thee will have to make inquiries once thee has reached New York,” Mr. Brewster says, focusing upon the young clergyman. “I will provide thee with letters of introduction to newspaper editors, should that be useful, and to the local elders of my church. But thee will have to use thine own ingenuity to accomplish this task, understood?”
“Ingenuity,” says Mr. Willow. “Indeed.”
“Thee must be clear in thy purpose, Webster, lest thee be mistaken for a spy.”
The idea alarms Mr. Willow. “Spy? Spy? They hang spies, don’t they?”
“Indeed they do,” says Mr. Brewster gravely. “But thee will not be spying. Thee are simply inquiring as to the whereabouts of an
Mr. Brewster smiles. “The animal is certainly old, I’ll grant thee that much. Never mind the cost of the journey, I’ll provide it gladly. And if I was not so urgently occupied here, I would accompany thee myself. But I dare not leave. Ebenezer Smelt may be gone, but there are like-minded men who will take his place.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say grandly. “Don’t you worry about Homer Figg!”
That makes Mrs. Bean roll her eyes, but at least she’s smiling again.
“No,” says Mr. Brewster. “I cannot in good conscience let thee proceed alone. I have arranged to have a young Methodist clergyman act as thy guardian. He will be supplied with sufficient funds to buy thy brother out of enlistment.”
It all sounds good to me. Better than good, because I get to see what a train looks like, and ride a steamship, and Harold gets out of the army. Then we’ll both come back to live with Mr. Brewster, and I’m pretty sure he won’t make us sleep in the barn.
Sitting in that warm and wonderful kitchen, it seems like all my dreams are about to come true. Of course if I’d known what was going to happen, I’d have taken Bob the horse, or my own two feet — anything but get on that train.
Trouble is, I had no more sense than a hungry mouse. I saw the cheese and never paid attention to the trap. Trap by the name of Willow.
The Reverend Webster B. Willow.
S OON AFTER BREAKFAST my new guardian shuffles into the drawing room, walking like he’s got something sticky on his boots that makes it hard to lift his feet from the floor. He’s tall and thin, with narrow shoulders not much wider than his head, and long skinny arms that shoot past his frayed cuffs. He’s wearing an old black frock coat, short at the waist, and trousers that shine at the knees, and a crooked stovepipe hat that bumps against the door frame as he enters the room.
“Pardon me, sirs!” he exclaims, blushing. “A thousand apologies! Oh dear, oh dear!”
Mr. Webster B. Willow don’t look much older than my brother, Harold. The fine blond hair on his narrow chin hasn’t decided if it wants to be a beard, and his eyes are so close together it looks like he’s studying his nose or trying to see around it. Mostly he seems to be upset about forgetting to take off his hat like a gentleman does when entering a house, and he looks like he wants to leave the room and try again.
“Never mind the hat, Webster,” says Mr. Brewster impatiently. “The hat is of no consequence. Come in, come in. I want thee to meet Homer Figg. He will be in thy charge.”
“Splendid, wonderful, how do you do, sir,” he says, grabbing my hand and shaking it without actually looking at me. “Wonderful opportunity! Splendid!”
He fidgets nervously with his dented hat while Mr. Brewster explains that we shall journey by train to Portland, and from there take an overnight steamship to New York.
“We can’t be exactly sure where or when Homer’s brother has been assigned,” Mr. Brewster says. “It is likely that all the new recruits will be sent to encampments in New York or New Jersey and from there dispatched to the field of battle. Is that clear?”
“Field of battle, yes,” says Mr. Willow.
“Thee will have to make inquiries once thee has reached New York,” Mr. Brewster says, focusing upon the young clergyman. “I will provide thee with letters of introduction to newspaper editors, should that be useful, and to the local elders of my church. But thee will have to use thine own ingenuity to accomplish this task, understood?”
“Ingenuity,” says Mr. Willow. “Indeed.”
“Thee must be clear in thy purpose, Webster, lest thee be mistaken for a spy.”
The idea alarms Mr. Willow. “Spy? Spy? They hang spies, don’t they?”
“Indeed they do,” says Mr. Brewster gravely. “But thee will not be spying. Thee are simply inquiring as to the whereabouts of an
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