The Tunnel of Hugsy Goode (27 page)

"Cluck!" I said. "That guy's out in Kalamazoo. And I never got one, not one letter, let alone one hundred! Yechh!"

In view of the important move soon to take place, Tornid and me have already stopped calling the girls
grils.
That was part of the tunnel game. Now we call Beatrice, Beatrice and Isabel, Izzy. My sisters, the same, though that was a harder switchover to make. Jane Ives said she had never liked the game anyway and was glad it was over and that it was a tie. Neither side had won or lost ... the
grilz
or the
boyz
...as Beatrice might once have said.

Tornid said, "Where's Connie?"

"Sleeping," said Jane Ives.

"Sleeping!" Tornid said. I could read his mind. Here he had already been to church and to Sunday school and home again and now here for tomato juice and talk, and soon it'd be lunchtime in his house. There, meanwhile, upstairs Connie was sleeping.

Then, Tornid and me, we heard her stirring around up there. We hid between the linen cupboard and the television. Then Tornid and me shouted at Connie as she came past. She screamed. Then she laughed. She pretended to swoon. She has a nice laugh. I mean it. "You can tell Connie," I said to Jane.

Then Tornid and me said, "See ya," and raced out, leaving it to Connie Ives's mom to break the news of our moving to her and so that Connie could eat her sausage and waffles at my place at the kitchen table.

Anyway, it was time for Tornid and me to go home to lunch, my mom having come out to the back stoop and blown her cow horn. What will they make of the cow horn in Vermont, I wonder?
¿Quién sabe?

I had my lunch, peanut butter sandwiches. Then I came upstairs. And I sat on my bed. And I got this book out. It is fourteen notebooks full, and this is the last page of the last one. I figured it out just right. I thought of having to say good-by to Jane Ives and her kitchen and her dining-room table where all the plans were drawn. I hated to think of saying good-by to the Fabians, too, to my pal Tornid especially. I just didn't want to think about it. And I don't want to string this book along until that day and tell about it. And remember ... I keep remembering ... how it is you make friends. So, what I'll do is I'll say good-by to this book. So ... now ... I'm ended.

Write me if you like the book. Copin Carroll, Grandby College, Brooklyn, New York. They'll forward it. You don't have to Mister or Master me. I'm only eleven. But don't ask for my picture. I only got three of the P.S. 2 class pictures. I gave one to my mom. One to Jane Ives. The school kept the other for a scrapbook.

So, good-by. I sort of hate to write

THE END

ELEANOR ESTES
(1906–1988) grew up in West Haven, Connecticut, which she renamed Cranbury for her classic stories about the Moffat and Pye families. A children's librarian for many years, she launched her writing career with the publication of
The Moffats
in 1941. Two of her outstanding books about the Moffats—
Rufus M.
and
The Middle Moffat—
were awarded Newbery Honors, as was her short novel
The Hundred Dresses.
She won the Newbery Medal for
Ginger Pye
in 1952.