Otis Spofford (6 page)

“There’s Stewy across the street,” exclaimed Bucky. “Look, he’s got a jar too.”

“Come on, let’s go around in back,” suggested Otis quickly.

“Hey, Stewy,” yelled Bucky. “Are you playing like you’re hunting fierce bugs in the jungle too?”

“Shhh,” hissed Otis, too late.

Stewy came across the street. He held his jar behind his back, so Otis could not see how many bugs he had. He glared at Otis, who also held his jar out of sight. Then he said to Bucky, “How would you like to hunt bugs in the jungle with me for a change?”

“Hey, cut it out,” said Otis. “Bucky and I are having a keen time all by ourselves, aren’t we, Bucky?”

Bucky beamed. “We sure are.”

Otis stepped around Stewy to try to catch a glimpse of his jar. If only he knew how many insects Stewy had! Stewy saw what Otis was trying to do and moved a couple of feet so Otis couldn’t see behind him.

“I know what,” said Bucky. “Let’s all play like we’re hunting in the jungle together.”

“Let’s not,” said Otis and Stewy together. This time Stewy tried to see behind Otis’s back, while Otis glared and moved away.

“Guess I’ll be going now,” said Stewy. “I’m about through anyway. So long. See you at six-thirty.” Stewy started home. Then he called back, “Unless I decide to take my thirty bugs over sooner.”

“I like Stewy. Don’t you?” asked Bucky.

Otis did not answer. He was too busy worrying. Was Stewy telling the truth or was he bluffing? He wished he knew. Otis tried to think where Stewy might have found a lot of insects all at once. That gave him an idea. “Come on, Bucky,” he said.

On either side of the front door of the apartment house was a porch light that burned all night. Otis knew that insects were attracted to them. He boosted Bucky up to one of the lights and told him how to unscrew it. He was rewarded by a shower of dust and dead moths.

Mrs. Brewster flung open the front door. She had a dish towel wrapped around her hair and a broom in her hand. “Now what are you boys up to?” she demanded, as she began to sweep the moths off the porch. “Just look at the litter on this porch.”

Bucky looked frightened, but Otis could not let that collection of moths be smashed to bits by the broom. “I’ll sweep the porch,” he offered. “We were just cleaning the bugs out of the light for you. I’d like to sweep the porch.”

“All right,” said Mrs. Brewster crossly. “But see that you get it clean. Goodness knows I have enough other work to do.”

That was close, thought Otis, as he got on his hands and knees to examine his harvest. There was not only an assortment of moths; there were three kinds of gnats as well. Of course, the bugs had been cooked by the heat of the light, but Otis was sure Hack wouldn’t mind, because their legs and wings were all in place. He hadn’t said the bugs had to be raw.

The second light produced two more moths and several insects Otis already had. If I were collecting just for fun, I could save them for traders, Otis thought, and picked a dead wasp out of a cobweb.

“Dead bugs aren’t any fun,” complained Bucky. “They don’t put up a fight.”

“Why don’t you play like you’re a janitor?” suggested Otis, who knew Bucky would do anything to please him. “You could have lots of fun sweeping the porch for Mrs. Brewster.”

“Okay,” agreed Bucky.

Otis continued to hunt alone. Fortunately this was the day his mother gave a private ballet lesson after her tap-dancing class, so he knew she would be late getting home. He hoped Stewy’s mother would insist on his taking time to eat dinner before six-thirty.

At six o’clock Otis went into his apartment, where he emptied a box of crackers onto the drain board. Then he lined the box with cotton and arranged his insects in rows. I’ll bet old Stewy won’t think of this, he thought. He’ll probably bring his all bunched up in the jar. Counting the dragonfly and butterfly, Otis had twenty-eight insects.

At seven minutes after six, Otis found a different kind of ant crawling on the garbage can behind the apartment house. That made twenty-nine. By a quarter after six, Otis was frantically beating the shrubs. He saw flies, earwigs, ladybugs—insects he already had. At twenty-five minutes past six, he knew he could hunt no longer. He had to take a chance on finding his last insect on the way to Hack’s house.

Stewy was sitting on Hack’s front steps with a candy box on his knees. Spud lay at his feet. “Hi,” he said. “Hack’s late getting home, or I’d have given him my thirty bugs a long time ago.”

Otis pretended to admire his collection so much that he did not hear. However, he was careful to close the lid of his box before he sat down beside Stewy.

“Just remember, I was here first,” said Stewy.

Otis did not say anything. Holding his box so Stewy couldn’t see into it, he took out the dragonfly and held it up to admire. “Hack will be glad to get this. You don’t often see such a beauty,” he remarked, because he was sure Stewy did not have a dragonfly. By the worried look on Stewy’s face, he knew he was right.

“He’d probably rather have my queen bee,” said Stewy.

Now it was Otis’s turn to look worried. Did Stewy really have a queen bee? How did he know it was a queen? Otis decided it was probably a plain old bumblebee that he just called a queen.

The boys sat in uneasy silence until Hack Battleson turned the corner. “Hi, Hack,” they yelled, and then glared at each other.

“Hi, kids,” answered Hack. “Sorry I’m late, but I had a few things to talk over with the coach.”

Otis looked admiringly at Hack. Maybe someday he would have to talk over a few things with the coach. Maybe when he got to high school the coach would remember that he was the boy who saved the big game by catching bugs. And he would have a purple sweater with a red
T
on one side and three red stripes on the left sleeve to show he had played on the team three years, just like Hack.

“Here are the bugs,” said Stewy.

Annoyed with himself for letting Stewy get ahead of him, Otis thrust his box at Hack too. “I’ve got some keen insects,” he said.

Hack sat down on the steps. He opened Stewy’s box first and counted all the insects in it while Otis waited anxiously. “Thirty,” announced Hack.

I guess that’s that, thought Otis, suddenly feeling tired and hungry. He had not saved the game for the Zachary P. Taylor High School after all. He had lost it by one bug. Just one little old bug. And Stewy would never let him forget it, either.

Hack opened Otis’s box. “Look at that dragonfly,” he said. “That’s a beauty.”

Otis felt a little better. At least Hack Battleson admired his dragonfly. That was something. Otis stepped over Spud and sat down on the steps while Hack counted his insects. “Twenty-nine,” said Hack. “You’re one short.”

“Ha!” said Stewy. “So you didn’t have thirty at all.”

You needn’t rub it in, thought Otis, as his eye fell on Stewy’s collection. “Hey, wait a minute!” he shouted. “Neither do you. You’ve got a spider and they don’t count. They’ve got eight legs.”

“That’s right,” agreed Hack. “If they have eight legs, they aren’t insects. Let’s have another look at that box.”

Surely Hack would take Otis’s collection now because of the dragonfly. Otis waited anxiously. Spud stood up on three legs to scratch. As Otis watched the dog, he was suddenly stunned by an idea. If only Stewy didn’t think of it at the same time! Otis quickly looked over Stewy’s collection. No, Stewy didn’t have one. That made his idea even better.

But Stewy had an idea of his own. “I know what,” Otis heard him say to Hack. “I’ll pull off a couple of its legs. Then it will be a six-legged bug.”

Otis parted Spud’s coarse hair and began to search for something.

“That wouldn’t work,” objected Hack, to Stewy’s suggestion.

Otis’s thumb and forefinger closed on something that he quickly popped into the jar.

“I don’t see why,” Stewy was saying. “I bet the teacher would think it was some new kind of bug.”

“She’s too smart for that,” said Hack. “Somebody tried it already.”

Then Otis spoke. “Here’s my thirtieth insect,” he said, as he reached into the jar.

“What is it?” asked Hack.

“A flea,” answered Otis.

“A flea!” Hack began to laugh, but he took the tiny insect and added it to Otis’s collection. Then he closed the box. “Thanks a lot,” he said. “I guess I ought to get a pretty good grade on this collection, even if I am late handing it in.”

Stewy turned to Otis. “Where did you get that flea?” he demanded.

“Off Spud,” said Otis.

“That’s what I thought.” Stewy was angry. “That was my flea! You took my flea.”

“Don’t you wish you’d thought of it?” jeered Otis. “So long, Hack.”

“Spud’s fleas are my fleas and you didn’t have any right to take it,” said Stewy, as Hack went into the house. “It was just plain cheating, that’s what it was.”

“Aw, you’re just mad because you weren’t smart enough to think of it first,” taunted Otis.

“Otis Spofford, I’ll…I’ll…” Stewy sputtered.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” yelled Otis, and ran down the street. And as he ran he was no longer Otis Spofford running home to dinner. He was Five-yard Spofford, running ninety-nine and a half yards for a touchdown to save the big game for the Zachary P. Taylor High School.

O
ne Friday morning Otis left his apartment house a little bit late for school, as usual. The first snow of the year had fallen during the night. The bite of frosty air on his cheeks and the sight of his neighborhood so changed by the blanket of snow made Otis feel that something exciting was going to happen.

This morning Otis was an Indian. He was thinking of a movie he had seen last Saturday at the Kiddie Matinee at the Laurelwood Theater. Instead of walking through the snow on the sidewalk, he slipped from tree to tree. When he had crept silently through the forest for a block, he saw Ellen and Austine ahead of him. He stopped being an Indian and became a boy again. He began to run.

Ellen looked over her shoulder. “Here he comes,” she cried, as she grabbed Austine’s hand and started to run.

Otis ran after the two girls. He did this nearly every morning on the way to school. Sometimes Otis ran as fast as he could. Other times he ran just fast enough to keep the girls running. After all, he did not want to catch them. He just wanted to tease them. Especially Ellen.

But this morning Otis did not chase the girls all the way to school. They had run only a block when Austine’s brother, Bruce, cut through a vacant lot and caught up with them. Otis noticed he was wearing his Boy Scout uniform under his leather jacket.

“Hey, what are you kids running for?” Bruce called to his sister and her friend.

The girls stopped and Otis slowed to a walk.

“He’s chasing us,” Austine panted.

“Him?” asked Bruce scornfully.

“Yes,” said Ellen. “He chases us every morning.”

“What would he do if he caught you?” Bruce asked.

Otis saw the girls look at each other. They didn’t know. All three were silent while he walked past. He was tempted to yank Austine’s hair ribbon as he went by, but he decided he’d better not with Bruce there.

Bruce said, “He wouldn’t do anything!”

Otis thought this over as he continued down the street. What
would
he do if he caught them? He didn’t know either. He guessed he would have to think of something. Now that there was snow on the ground, he might wash their faces.

Then he heard Bruce say, “I’ll tell you what. You chase him.”

Startled, Otis stopped and looked back. Ellen and Austine were staring at each other in surprise. Such an idea had never occurred to them. They giggled.

“Go on,” urged Bruce. “I’ll watch you.” With Bruce to protect them, the girls began to run. Otis stood his ground an instant and then he began to run too. There was no telling what two girls might do if they caught him.

“That’s it,” yelled Bruce. The girls ran faster, their feet scrunching in the snow.

Otis ran faster too. That old Boy Scout, he thought, as his feet pounded through the snow and he unzipped his jacket to cool off. Probably thinks he’s done his good deed for the day. I’ll fix him. Otis made up his mind to let the air out of Bruce’s tires as soon as the snow melted and he rode his bicycle to school again.

To Otis’s embarrassment, the girls, protected by Bruce, chased him all the way to school. Of course, everyone on the school grounds saw him. They left their snowmen and snowball fights to watch.

“Hey, Otis,” yelled Stewy. “What are you running for?” Everyone laughed.

“What’s the matter?” yelled a boy, throwing a snowball at him. “You scared of a couple of girls?”

Otis didn’t know what to do. He was running because he didn’t know how to stop.

“You go that way and I’ll go this way,” he heard Austine say, as they ran into the schoolyard.

They’re surrounding me, thought Otis. Now what am I going to do? He turned and ran to the right. He nearly bumped into Ellen. He ran to the left. Austine was ahead of him. She reached out to grab him but he dodged away from her. There was Ellen again.

Otis tried to dodge a second time, but he was too late. Ellen grabbed his collar. With a quick twist of his body he wrenched himself out of her grasp. He felt something give and saw the top two buttons of his shirt pop out into the snow. Otis glared at Ellen. “Now see what you’ve done.”

Then the bell rang, and the breathless girls left Otis and went into the building. He heard them giggling about the way they had made him run.

Several boys gathered around Otis and laughed.

“Jeepers, letting a couple of girls chase you,” George said.

“Aw, keep quiet,” muttered Otis, looking down at his shirt. Quickly he pulled it together at the neck, but he was not quick enough.

“Hey, fellows!” Stewy whooped. “Did you see his undershirt? It’s pink!”

“Aw,” growled Otis, taking hold of the rabbit’s foot on his zipper and zipping up his jacket.

“Pink underwear! Whoever heard of a boy wearing pink underwear?” someone wanted to know.

“It isn’t really pink,” said Otis.

“It is, too,” contradicted Stewy. “I saw it.” “Well, it isn’t supposed to be pink,” protested Otis. “My mother put one of my glow-in-the-dark socks in the washing machine by mistake, and it faded and dyed everything pink. Sheets and towels and everything.”

The boys laughed. Otis’s explanation did not change the color of his undershirt. They were not going to let him forget it.

And they didn’t, either. Word soon spread around Rosemont School that Otis was wearing pink underwear. Otis took off his jacket in the cloakroom and went to his desk, where he fastened his shirt with a paper clip and slid down in his seat with a scowl on his face. Every boy in Room Eleven stopped at his desk and asked to see his pink underwear. The more Otis thought about it, the more he didn’t like being chased. He didn’t like losing his buttons, either. And it was all Bruce’s fault for not minding his own business. And that Ellen…she’d be sorry!

As the boys and girls struggled out of boots, sweaters, jackets, coats, scarves, earmuffs, caps, and mittens they babbled not only about Otis’s pink underwear, but also about the snow and the coasting they were going to do after school. They could hardly wait.

Mrs. Gitler had to clap her hands several times for attention. Then she said, “I know we are all excited about the snow and are eager to go coasting, but that does not mean we may neglect our schoolwork. Let’s forget about the snow until school is out.”

The class exchanged glances. What a silly thing for Mrs. Gitler to say. How could they forget about the snow when it was falling past the windows this very minute?

“Who has something to share with the class during Telling Time?” Mrs. Gitler asked.

Stewy shot up out of his seat. “Otis Spofford wears pink underwear,” he announced in a loud voice, and sat down.

Instantly the class was in an uproar. Otis felt himself turn red. He glared at Stewy and drew back his fist to show Stewy he had better look out.

Mrs. Gitler rapped on her desk with a ruler. “Stewart, I’m disappointed in you. You know that is not the sort of thing we talk about in Telling Time. The class is not interested in the color of Otis’s underwear.”

That’s what she thinks, thought Otis.

Ellen was next to tell something to the class. “This morning the milk was frozen in the bottles on our front porch. The cream stuck way up above the tops of the bottles and the caps were sitting on top of the cream.”

“That’s nothing. Ours has been that way for a week,” said Tommy. The rest of the class agreed, and Ellen looked embarrassed because she had not noticed the frozen milk sooner.

“That means the temperature went down to freezing, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Gitler remarked, before she called on George.

“Last night my dad took my brother and me in the car over to Laurelwood Park to see if the lake had frozen over. There was ice all over it except in the very middle where the ducks swim around, so it can’t freeze. Some men from the fire department were looking at it. They said if it was as cold last night as it has been the last few nights, the ice would be thick enough to skate on.” George looked pleased to have brought this news to the class.

Boy, I’m sure going to the lake, thought Otis, as an excited murmur ran through the class. Not every winter was cold enough for outdoor skating.

“Thank you, George,” said Mrs. Gitler. “From what Ellen told us about the frozen milk we know that we had freezing weather last night. How many of you plan to go skating?”

Half the boys and girls raised their hands. Otis and the rest of the class buzzed with plans for skating and coasting until Mrs. Gitler told them to take out their arithmetic books.

Otis enjoyed the air of excitement, but Mrs. Gitler had a difficult time teaching arithmetic. Because of the weather, the class had to stay in during recess. Mrs. Gitler said it was like being in a room with thirty-five wild Indians.

After lunch, when everyone had again scrambled out of boots, sweaters, jackets, coats, scarves, earmuffs, caps, and mittens, half the class complained about being hit by snowballs by the other half. Everyone was saying either “I did not,” or “You did, too,” until Mrs. Gitler clapped her hands, blew on her pitch pipe, and had everyone sing
Jingle Bells
. That helped for a few minutes. The rest of the afternoon, while Mrs. Gitler tried to teach, the boys and girls looked out of the windows to see if more snow was falling or at the clock to see how much time was left before they could be out in it. Mrs. Gitler looked at the clock too, and said she was glad when the last period of the day came and she could tell the class to take out their readers.

Reluctantly, Otis took
With Luke and Letty on the Oregon Trail
out of his desk. With a feeling of great dislike, he looked at the picture on the cover. Another couple of dopes, thought Otis. Boys and girls in readers were always dopes. They were always polite and they never used slang and they hardly ever did anything they shouldn’t. Except for wearing old-fashioned clothes and saying “Yes, Pa,” instead of “Yes, Father,” Luke and Letty were just like all the rest. Dopes!

Yesterday the class had read about Luke and Letty crossing the North Platte River in their covered wagon. Nothing much happened. The wagon tipped a little and Letty said, “Oh, Pa, what will we do if the wagon tips over?” It didn’t tip over, though. Otis thought that if he had written the story he would have dumped the whole bunch of them into the river and had them chased by a herd of buffalo besides.

With no enthusiasm at all, Otis turned to the next chapter. There was a picture of an Indian at the top of the page. That was a good sign. Something might happen in this chapter. If he had his way about it, the Indian would scalp old Luke and Letty and that would be the end of the reader.

Mrs. Gitler called on Stewy to read first. He read, without expression, “‘Look, Pa, Indians,’ said Luke. ‘Oh, Ma, what shall we do?’ asked Letty.”

Otis made a face. That was the way Luke and Letty always talked. It sounded even worse the way Stewy read. Well, he knew what he would do if Indians were coming after him. He’d grab a gun and get down inside the covered wagon where the Indians couldn’t see him and then when they got close enough…

“Otis.” Mrs. Gitler’s voice broke into his thoughts. “You may read next.”

Otis got to his feet. He wasn’t sure where the place was, but he took a chance. “Uh…Letty climbed into the wagon to hide from the Indians while Luke helped Pa round up the cattle that followed—”

Mrs. Gitler interrupted. “Otis, I don’t know where you have been, but the rest of the class has traveled to the top of the next page. Please begin there.”

Otis continued. “Then Pa said, ‘Do not be afraid. These Indians are friends of the white man. They bring us robes made of buffalo skins.’” Otis paused. How do you like that! he thought. Friendly Indians! Who wanted to read about friendly Indians?

“Go on, Otis,” said Mrs. Gitler.

“But, Mrs. Gitler,” objected Otis, “I thought the Indians went on the warpath and burned the pioneers’ wagons and stuff. They do in the movies.”

All the other boys nodded in agreement. George spoke up. “I went to the show Saturday and there was this Indian that—”

“Never mind, George,” said Mrs. Gitler sharply. “Many of the Indians were friendly to the pioneers. Right now we are studying the reader, not the movies.”