Read Online The Mostly True Adventures of Homer P. Figg by Rodman Philbrick - Free Book Online Page B

COBBLESTONE STREET leads to Portland Harbor, and everybody at the train station said we can’t miss it, our feet will tell us when we get there, but miss it we do. Seems that Mr. Willow hasn’t got no more sense of direction than a blind kitten, and won’t stop to ask along the way because he’s afraid of pickpockets and thieves.
    “A great man has entrusted me with a sum of money,” he mutters to himself, checking his pockets. “I dare not risk it.”
    I’ve got my eyes peeled for lowlifes, figuring a city like Portland might have its own versions of Smelt and Stink lurking about, but we don’t run into anybody that fits the description. Matter of fact, no one seems to be paying us any mind as we wander through fine neighborhoods of big houses shaded by giant elms.
    “Oh dear,” says Mr. Willow. “I seem to have gotten turned around again. Didn’t we pass that yellow house before?”
    “Twice,” I tell him. “We’re heading uphill.”
    “Indeed we are,” he says. “Are you averse to going uphill?”
    “I expect the water part of the city will be downhill, Mr. Willow.”
    “Really?” he asks, as if shocked by the idea. “Extraordinary!”
    “Let’s go downhill for a while,” I suggest. “See where it takes us.”
    Mr. Willow lets me tug him along by the sleeve and in a few minutes we get clear of the big elm trees and see the sparkling harbor laid out before us. The port is packed with ships of every size and shape. There are schooners and paddlewheel steamships and sloops and ferryboats and wherries and more kinds of vessels than I ever imagined, all crowded together along the waterfront like bees trying to feed at a hive.
    “Oh my,” says Mr. Willow, staring in wonder. “Oh my, oh my.”
    Now that we can see where we’re headed and keep the busy harbor in sight, we’re able to cut through the side streets and down the pretty hills until finally we find the promised cobblestones under our feet, and the big iron gates to the steamship lines dead ahead.
    The cobblestones are mobbed with people in a hurry to get somewhere. Fine people in fine clothes, and workmen in rags, and police and sailors. Boys no older than me are loading carts and smoking clay pipes and looking very superior.
    “Look out! Make way!”
    When a fast carriage comes through, rattling over the stones, we have to step quickly to the side or risk getting run down. That’s how we happen to make the acquaintance of beautiful Kate Nibbly and her brother Frank.
    In her rush to avoid the carriage and keep her skirts clear of the filthy street, Miss Nibbly somehow bumps into Mr. Willow and ends up sprawled in his long skinny arms.
    “Dear me!” he exclaims, finding her there. “Oh my!”
    “Thank you, kind sir,” she says, fluttering a pair of soft gloves at his twitching nose. “You have saved me from ruining my dress.”
    Before Mr. Willow can answer, I hear another voice coming up quick behind us.
    “Sister, are you okay? Have you been injured?”
    That’s her brother Frank, who looks to be about Mr. Willow’s age, and dressed like a prosperous gentleman, with a finely tailored suit, a gold chain to hold his pocket watch, gleaming leather shoes, and a mustache that curls up at the ends. Once he realizes what has happened — that the skinny clergyman has saved his sister from falling down or worse — he can’t thank Mr. Willow enough.
    “My dear fellow,” he exclaims, seizing Mr. Willow’s hand and shaking it. “Well done! Well done! Kate, have you thanked this brave gentleman?”
    “Yes, brother,” she says, sounding ever so sweet and meek. “I let him kiss my gloves.”
    Mr. Willow’s face gets as red as a ripe tomato, but he seems very pleased with himself. Frank looks things over, a big smile on his face, and his friendly eyes glint with humor. “Kissed her gloves, did you? Why that’s practically a proposal of marriage.”
    Mr. Willow commences to stutter and squeak like a tea kettle coming to boil, but