Chapter 4

Chapter 4 That Bad Feeling Evan stared in amazement. The hole in the wall was gone. He and Pete had worked all day, first ripping out the damaged studs and replacing them with clean, dry wood, then trimming the old boards so that the ragged hole became a neat rectangle, then measuring and cutting and nailing in the new sheets of plywood. There was still the dry wall to hang and the outside shingles to replace, but the hole was gone. Evan had never felt such a sense of accomplishment in his life, not even when he and Jessie had won the Labor Day Poster Contest at the end of the summer. Now he was sweeping up the sawdust that lay as thick as a carpet under his feet. Pete said no carpenter worth his salt leaves a mess behind at the end of the day. So Evan was sweeping up the

sawdust and bent nails and small chips of wood, while Pete hauled the bigger scraps out to the truck. But every once in a while, Evan stopped and held the broom still in his hands so that he could admire the work they had done. He couldn't wait to show his mom when she got back from the hospital. He was dumping the last pile of sawdust into the large gray plastic barrel when he heard loud clomping on the front porch, followed by the front door opening. Evan walked into the living room just as Jessie tried to step over the threshold wearing her snowshoes. "Evan! The bell is gone!" She tripped over the doormat and fell face first into the living room, landing hard on her hands and knees. Behind her was an older boy Evan had never seen before. He had funny-looking cross-country shoe-boots on his feet, and he was carrying a pair of ski poles. Evan guessed he was at least twelve, maybe thirteen.

"I can't get these off," said Jessie. She had rolled onto her back in the living room and was holding her feet up in the air. The snowshoes were dripping clumps of snow onto her face and the floor. "Help me, Evan!" "Oh, for Pete's sake," he said. He crossed over to where she was squirming and grabbed hold of one of the snowshoes. The boy had a funny smile on his face and was rocking back and forth, one foot out in front of the other. "Hey," said Evan, as a way of introducing himself. "You don't see that every day," said the boy, looking at Jessie, who looked like a ladybug caught on her back. "Yeah, actually, I do," said Evan. Jessie was always tripping over something or getting caught on something or dragging something along behind her. Evan unclipped one snowshoe and then the other and flipped them off Jessie's feet. "The bell is gone, Evan! Gone!" "What do you mean? Grandma's bell?"

"Yes! The New Year's Eve bell!" "It can't be gone. You must have climbed the wrong hill." "No, we didn't. The wooden post was there, just like always, but the bell is gone!" Evan shook his head. "That thing weighs—I don't know—a hundred pounds. There's no way someone could just walk off with it. And besides, who would want to take it?" "Who wouldn't want to take it?" Jessie asked, bouncing from one foot to the other. "It's an antique and it's famous—" "It's not famous, Jessie," said Evan, shaking his head. "Just 'cause it's in that book doesn't make it famous." "Well, it's worth two thousand five hundred dollars!" "Is not!" "I'll show you!" Jessie ran to the couch where she'd left The Big Book of Bells that morning and pulled out a letter that was tucked into the back

cover of the book. She handed it to Evan, who read it slowly, not understanding all the words but getting the general idea. About five years ago, Grandma had had the bell appraised to find out how much it was worth, and Jessie was right: the letter said the bell was worth $2,500. "Wow," said Evan. Maxwell bobbed his head several times, rocking back and forth on his feet. "We've got to find it," said Jessie, pulling on Evan's arm. "New Year's Eve is in three days! If we don't ring the bell on New Year's Eve..." Jessie couldn't get the words out, and Evan knew what she was feeling. It was hard to imagine not ringing the bell on New Year's Eve. They had always done that, for as long as he could remember. Evan looked at the boy and then back at his sister. "Jessie...?" He half pointed at Maxwell, hoping his sister would get the hint, but as usual, she didn't. "Uh, my name's Evan," he said to the

boy, sticking out his hand the way grownups did. "How do you do," said the boy, shaking Evan's hand. "My name's Maxwell. I'm smart!" Then he rocked forward on his left foot and shook his right hand in the air. Evan looked at him closely. "Maxwell lives in the yellow house. The one with the big rock out front," said Jessie. "He knows Grandma really well." "Yep," said Maxwell. "I come here all the time." Maxwell was rocking back and forth steadily now, snapping his right hand in the air with each forward motion. "We watch TV! And we do puzzles. And we feed the birds. And I'm smart! That's what Mrs. Joyce says. She says, 'Maxwell, you are smart!'" There was a moment's silence, and then Evan asked, "What grade are you in?" "Sixth grade," said Maxwell. "Hardy Middle School. Grade six." "Mom's home!" shouted Jessie, running for the front door. Evan had heard it, too—the old