The Moffats by Eleanor Estes Page B

pavement on his Flexible Flyer sled. She sat on the empty burlap bag that was to hold the coal. The short winter day was already breathlessly hurrying to an end. A strong wind had arisen and the going was difficult. The lamplighter was already making his rounds. Otherwise, very few people were on the street this cold day, and they were muffled up like mummies. They passed Peter Frost. He was belly flopping on his Flexible Flyer.
    "Hello, Moffats," he said sneeringly, pretending he was going to bump smack into them but veering quickly aside just before crashing. His tone had improved very little since the ghost in the attic, but at least he no longer pulled Sylvie's curls and Jane's braids. He didn't honk his bicycle siren right in their ears, nor did he bark like a dog at Catherine-the-cat. On the whole, he treated all the Moffats with just a shade more respect.
    Joe and Jane did not answer but trudged on. The wind made their scarves flutter madly and tried to snatch their hats from their heads. It put bright red spots on the ends of their noses, but it couldn't get at their ears, for Joe's furlined muffs prevented that, as did Jane's hand-crocheted red woolen tam.
    "Be easier comin' back," shouted Joe, his breath coming out in white puffs.

    They stopped for a few minutes in the shelter of a fruit and grocery store. The lights from the window shone on the ice and snow. Jane and Joey pressed their faces against the window and looked hungrily at the oranges, apples, tangerines, and grapefruit.
    "Oh, my mouth's waterin' so," said Jane. "I can't see a window full of oranges without my mouth just waterin' and waterin'."
    "Me—apples," put in Joe, thinking of the crunch of putting his teeth into one of them.
    "Oh, come on, come on," said Jane, dancing up and down, for her chilblains hurt her. "I can't abide to look at those oranges any longer."

    So on they went. Way at the end of the street, on the harbor's edge, they could see the big sign. COAL. The letters were so high you could see them a mile away. The nearer they came to the water, the keener the wind howled. They talked little, keeping their noses buried in their mufflers. At last they reached the coal yards. Here there was a little protection from the wind, but goodness, how cold it was! The cold crept inside their mackintoshes and made their bodies shrink into tight little balls.
    A big man with icicles in his mustache and a face blackened with coal dust asked them what they wanted.
    "A bushel of coal, please," said Joe, handing the man the burlap bag.
    The big man led the way to the coal sheds, where each different kind of black coal had its own stall. The coal man filled the bag with the shining black nuggets.
    "Boy, oh, boy," whispered Jane, "don't you wish't all that coal was in our own barn?"
    "All right," said the man, lugging the bag to the sled. "A dollar and twenty cents."
    Joe felt in his pocket for the money. It wasn't there! His heart leaped into his throat. Hadn't he put that five-dollar bill in his coat pocket? The little pocket with the flap that buttoned? He felt again very carefully. There was no hole in it. But the money certainly was not there. His hands trembled as he began hastily to feel in all the other pockets.
    Jane looked at him in helpless horror. The man stood there like a rock and said nothing. Joe gulped. In all his pockets, nothing! Could he have lost it? Lost all the money they had?
    "Maybe you took the money," he said to Jane, knowing very well this wasn't the case, but hoping anyway.

    Jane shook her head but she felt in her pockets. Oh, if only her fingers would close on that worn, little black purse! But no, nothing!
    The two stood there in front of the coal man in the utmost dejection. Between the gusts of wind they could hear the ice making in the harbor. Joe went through his pockets again. Perhaps he had missed it? No. There was nothing that his fingers could possibly mistake for money.
    They were so dismayed they could say nothing.