&&000 CANADIAN SCHOOLBOOKS CA807C.TXT GRADE 7, 1980s N= 17 pages (n=6496 tokens) sampled from OISE/UT 9-10 dec 2003 by dph 1st edited by dph 21 Dec 2003 re-edited 21 June 2005 COMBINED FILES: ca807 & ca8072 = CA807C.TXT &&111 =BasilEverton-Smythe, author, explorer and one-time big game hunter, was having a good day. It had started peacefully enough with a trip to =Victoria to buy typing paper and other necessities of his writing trade. Next had come an excellent lunch at an =EastIndian restaurant, followed by a most enjoyable and highly technical discussion with his gunsmith. As he drove home, his thoughts revolved around the plot for his next adventure story. Should he tell the tale of the enraged male baboon he had fought and killed with his skinning knife? He felt his scalp tighten as he relived the exhausting and bloody battle. He decided that he would write the yarn with his usual suspense and vividness, transporting his readers to =Africa where they could listen to night-prowling lions coughing on the veldt while safari porters chattered in soft Swahili around the sweet-scented nyomba wood fire. Suddenly he realized that his driveway was at hand. He slowed down, glancing at his watch. It was precisely four o'clock teatime. =Everton-Smythe wondered whether he should select jasmine-scented =China tea or something rich and dark, plucked and cured in the cool hills of =Darjeeling. He pondered the weighty problem, paying little attention to his surroundings. =Everton-Smythe jerked the steering wheel. His car crashed through the thick shrubs. Stopping just in time to avoid collision with a maple tree, he sat quivering, his heart beating wildly. For a moment he wondered if some fool had fired a twelve-bore gun, or if a careless powderman had blown up a stump alongside his car. I was outvoted. Well, not really. I had nothing to cast nay vote for except going home. And suddenly I didn't want that either. There seemed to be more to do where we were. Maybe it was wrong. but we stayed. For a few minutes we just stood there, thinking. Then without a word we all put our hands on the wall and pushed. Nothing happened. "Maybe it takes a fourth, like bridge." This time there were three of us to be startled by a strange voice. It belonged to a woman in riding clothes. "Why, there is a wall here," she said, reaching out, as if she thought we'd all been pushing on air. "Whatever is it?" We told her what we knew. "is there a break in it anywhere she asked. "Not that we've found." the man answered. "We went way up, I said. "And we couldn't find a break. "We might know more about it if we could get inside," the man said. "Let's see what we can do." So all four of us trooped up the way =Krishna and I had gone. but this time we went farther up along the wall. =Krishna was first, and all at once he gave a little cry. "It's here," he said. "The entrance." Sure enough, there was a break of about a metre, as if two huge plates of steel hung for a wall didn't quite meet at the joining. The woman pushed on through, and hardly thinking, we all walked in behind. Inside was much like outside, the same rock, the same contours. There was a little more vegetation, but that was normal since we had reached the more shaded areas at the head of the canyon. I felt along the curve. The wall was as firm on one side as on the other. We explored around, then climbed down to the path inside the wall and marched to the head of the canyon. There was no sign of anyone or anything. We stood there. looking from side to side, surrounded by a strange translucent haze. "Nothing more here." said the man reluctantly. "Not even my runaway horse," said the woman, ruefully. "I thought he might be up here. Got spooked by a snake when I got off to look at a new rockfall. I thought he came this way. "Look at =Monarch." And =Woodchuck points out =Monarch over in the corner. "Blind and not one word of complaint, ever." =Sonny adds, "=Monarch can't see you, miss. It's awful." Carefully she looks at these creatures, one after the other. The father goes on, "Have you decided to return to your hazelnuts?" "Yes." "Good. That's better than leaving the world. Shall we dance?" "Shall we dance, miss?" says Sonny as he makes a spin. Almost singing, she replies, "Yes, let's dance." "=Sonny," orders his father, "run to the marsh and tell the frogs to make some music for us." Sonny rushes out. The blind =Monarch gets up, leaves his corner and approaches, feeling the air with his muzzle. The father notices him and asks, "=Monarch, what are you doing? Do you want something?" "Where is =Ginger?" he asks in a beautiful, lonely voice. "Here, sir." And she goes to meet him. "Will you allow me the first dance, little princess?" "Gladly, sir." "You'll lead, won't you, because of my eyes?" "Yes, of course." The father steps back, saying under his breath, "=Monarch - a real king!" They talk for quite a while longer and they dance long after the dinner hour. =Ginger turns round and round, and bows with all the gracefulness of a squirrel. =Sonny, his heart full of joy, jumps enough to make the walls shake. The father is touched and sits twisting root ends around his claws while stealthily admiring the old blind one who chuckles away in his sand chair. Late at night, each retires to his room. =Ginger falls asleep dreaming of dancing. The next day, at the first rays of the sun, they lead her back as far as the hedge. The blind fellow is part of the group walking slowly on the path of the woodchucks, behind the father and his son and beside =Ginger who gives him her arm. "=Ginger?" "Yes, =Monarch?" =BobGarett was not only the boy who lived next door to me, but he was also my best friend. I had known him ever since pre-school days when he had upset the table at my birthday party and I had been his assistant in his backyard magic shows. So when =Bob phoned to say that his cousin =Howard was coming to visit from out of town the following weekend and could I please ask my friend =Paula to make it a foursome, I couldn't say no. I dialed =Paula's number. "Oh, hello, =Sally," she said. "What are you doing?" "Nothing much," I said, and told her about =Bob's call. "I'm not interested," =Paula said in a sulky voice. "If I never see =Bob =Garett again it will be soon enough for me." "Oh, =Paula!" I hunched my shoulders together and grimaced at the mouthpiece. "You take =Bob too seriously." =Paula had this `thing' about =Bob. He had taken her to a concert in the park last summer and to the winter carnival dance. I had a faint suspicion that =Paula wanted to monopolize all of =Bob's time instead of just half of it. "What's =Bob's cousin like?" asked =Paula. "Is he good-looking?" "I don't know." "All right," she said suddenly. "Count me in. On one condition." "Don't keep me in suspense," I said with a sigh. I was ready to agree with almost anything. "As long as it's a double date," =Paula said. "I want you to have =Bob as your date. I'll take his cousin. That should give =Bob something to think about. He's too sure of himself and of me." "Well," I said as nonchalantly as possible, "if =Bob doesn't mind. "What's the matter? What did I say?" =Liza asked. There was no time for that now, but =Jo would certainly see this girl again. They had something quite remarkable in common, and she wanted to know more. But first there was the matter of the injured cat. "Come with me," =Jo invited. "I think that white cat may be hurt." "Too bad," =Liza said. "But I wouldn't go down there for anything. You go, if you want to." Jo didn't want to go either, but she knew she had to, and she hurried away on the descending path to the lake road. She had seen a map of =Laurel grounds, and she knew that the entrance to the rock maze was somewhere down there near the water. "Remember - her name is =Snowdrop," Liza called after her. "She's =Erik's cat." =Jo waved a hand in response and started to run. Who =Erik was she didn't know, and at that moment didn't care. As she reached the lower level, the wide expanse of =LaurelMountainHouse spread before her across the lake. Mr =Dennis had said the hotel had been built by members of his family in the last century. It was a fantastic place, and if everything had been different, Jo would have loved exploring it. But how could she like anything about =Laurel when there was Mr =Dennis? =Scott, she was supposed to call him. =Ugh! Yet what else could she call the man her mother planned to marry? Certainly not Father or Dad. She ran along the road beside the lake, searching for the entrance to what the map called the =RockMaze. Out on the lake little boats propelled by oar or foot paddles speckled the surface, and people standing on the long boat dock were talking and shouting, their voices carrying clearly across the water. =Jo and her mother had arrived only this morning, and there was so much to learn. Another time she might go rowing herself. But right now she could only think of the cat. A sign marked the entrance to the maze, and =Jo climbed over a threshold of rock to find herself in a narrow canyon, with great boulders towering on both sides. The sky quickly shrank to a narrow strip overhead, and it was colder in the heart of all this rock. Colder and a little scary. She had the feeling those rock walls might press together at any moment and crush her. escape, but =Julia was waiting and she had to continue. "Well, it wouldn't be you if you didn't try to help =Faye," she explained, "and I can see that you'd want to give her a part in the show. But the six of us are going to be together all the time, and it isn't easy for people to see so much of each other. If the show's to be successful you're going to need co-operation from everyone, and =Faye well, I do realize now that she has a reason for that chip on her shoulder, but it still makes it hard." She looked away, stuffing a purple cloak into a bag with great concentration. "You're quite right, =Cindy, perfectly right," =Julia agreed. "It would be sensible to choose only pleasant, well-adjusted people. Only you see, I've got an `only' too." She put down her work, looking gravely at =Cindy as she talked. "When I started this project, I knew there were three things I wanted to do. First I want to bring live productions to children in small communities, give them a chance to see real theater. And I want to give experience to talented young people, that's number two. But I want it to be more than just stage experience. I think of it as a lesson in living, and that's the third and perhaps the most important thing I would like to achieve." She reached for a costume again, talking quietly as her fingers worked. "Take =Jen for instance. She was delicate as a child and never allowed any rough and tumble or anything the least bit boisterous. It was only when her doctor suggested ballet lessons to strengthen her legs that she began to dance. Now she's too correct, i too careful. She can't seem to let herself go the way a sixteen-year old should. I hope she'll come back from this tour a more outgoing and happy-go-lucky person. "=Ron was an only child and lived on an isolated farm until a couple of years ago. When he came to the city he was overawed by everything. He hasn't made many friends and he never volunteers for school activities. Even though he's really talented musically, he's always afraid that he won't be good enough. I believe that a month of living and working with other young people will give him the confidence he needs. "As for =Faye, well, as you said before, she's got a chip on her shoulder. She acts too belligerent, too tough. She's trying to pretend The meal ended in an unsettled haze. Should she stay or should she go? It would mean so much to stay in a comfortable place, if only for one night. If she could just sleep before she went on, that would be something. For a moment she had the stark notion of overcoming the boy, driving him off. Stupid. She couldn't, and she really didn't want to. Then she would always have to be afraid of the same thing herself: if she knew for sure people did that, because she had done it herself, she could not rest easy. They left the house together after the meal-cleaning was done. He motioned to the bench and said a few words. Was she to stay? It seemed so. But she saw that he was agitated. She knew how the pattern of life went on a farm, the pressures he was under, alone at this season. No wonder the weeding wasn't done. There was too much work for one. And if he were newly alone, he might wonder, as she did, if he could cope with the future. Did she want to stay here with this boy? For more than a day? The question made her stop. He was such a stolid sort. A child almost, though surely of her age. At ease with her himself, he might be different. Yet it was nothing for her to ponder now. It was his land and his decision. If he wanted her to stay, then it would be her turn to decide. She could stay or she could go. She was no beggar to remain in a sorry place, just to live. She turned again to the garden to keep from thinking. Warring against her sensible thoughts, her pride, was a feeling of desperation. She had to find a place, and soon. This was the first in five or was it six days. Could she manage to get to another? And would she be welcome there if she found it? These were not the thoughts she wanted. She tried to put them away, but they kept coming back. The afternoon wore on. The boy, when she looked, was not in the oats. Where had he gone? She gathered up what she had picked and put them with the ones from the morning, on the bench. Enough here to dry, she thought absently. The futility of it struck her. What chance did she have? How could she survive another six days, let alone winter, if she didn't find a place? And this boy! It was clear he was too confused, too unsettled, to let her stay long. She dropped her head, willing herself not to cry. And as she did, he came up. She looked at him and knew. She had been right. She was to go. "It's six o'clock in the morning. You come in here and eat your breakfast and stop being silly." At eight a.m. I couldn't stand it any longer. I ran over to the Swanson's house and rang the bell until someone answered. It was Mrs =Swanson, in a housecoat. "Is =Jane in?" I asked miserably. "I hope so," said Mrs =Swanson. I stood in the doorway of the living-room. =Jane was sitting on the chesterfield, holding the diary, still in its box. "Come over," she welcomed, "and sit down." We sat on the chesterfield. Mrs =Swanson disappeared into the kitchen. I took my diary out of my pocket. "We got the same gift," I said, trying to be nonchalant. She nodded. "Come out and see the goldfish." I followed her out to the sunporch. I was so intent on keeping my eyes on the diary she was carrying that I did not see the roller-skate in the doorway. The next second I had just missed not only looking at the goldfish, but joining them in the tank. I hit my head on the table which held the tank. I sat on the floor in a daze. I had lost all incentive to stand up. At least, I thought, as my forehead started to burn, with the bump from the softball, I'll be symmetrical. Jane fussed over me. She helped me to my feet and insisted on leading me over to the couch. She peered at my forehead. "Oh, dear, oh dear," she wailed. "It's nothing," I said, "really." My head was bursting. We sat in silence. Finally I thought of a ruse. "What's your favorite color?" I asked. She looked at me curiously. "Red." "And yours?" she added. "Red, I guess I I thought you might like to change diaries. Mine is blue." "I hate blue," she said decisively. "But your dress is blue." She looked down at it. "Oh, this old thing," she snorted. "And your eyes are blue," I said desperately. "I wish they were brown." I gave up. small amount of the food packed for them by the good women of =Felsheim. "We'd best walk in the daylight," =Julilly said. "There's no paths left and no signs of people." "Trying to step over all these sticks and stones when nighttime comes is more than my two legs can manage," =Liza agreed. They decided to stay near the covering trees at all times and take cover at once if any stir of life was heard around them. They trudged along whatever trails they could find. Sometimes furry little animals jumped across their path, but the wild beasts that howled in the night seemed to take cover for the day. The girls climbed on and on, only stopping for drinks from the flooded mountain streams. Their guide was the needle of the compass which never left Julilly's hand. The land was getting flatter and flatter, and the protecting mountain peaks were behind them. That night they rested uneasily in a cornfield near a road. In the very early morning, =Julilly saw an old coloured man hobbling along the road, pulling a cart behind him. She crawled quickly from their hideout and walked up to him. She had no fear of this ancient white-haired, black-faced man. "Can you tell me what town I'm coming to next?" she asked. The old man jumped a little. =Julilly startled him. It seemed as if he had trudged this road a thousand times and never had a black girl bound out right in front of him before. He stopped his cart and looked 'at her carefully. "=Lexington, =Kentucky," he answered kindly. Then he whispered, "You a slave? You running away?" =Julilly didn't have to answer. The old man knew. He looked cautiously down the road behind him as though expecting someone. Then he pulled his cart to the side of the road and lowered the handles to the ground. He reached inside his loose jacket and drew out a half-loaf of bread. "This is for you, child," he said softly. His wise old eyes lighted on her briefly, then focused far away with tired patience. "If I was a young man, I'd go along," he said. He peered again down the road. "Hide in those bushes, boy. When night comes, follow the railroad tracks to =Covington. There's a free colored man named =JebBrown lives there. He'll get you across the =OhioRiver in his little "Only thirsty. Terribly thirsty." Then the horror changed to a shuddering wave of such sadness that it almost overwhelmed him, and he had to fight to drive his emotions down and out of the way, so he could think properly and act to save his friend's life. "When did it happen?" =Danny asked. "Right after you left. That afternoon." He had been under the rock pile for more than a day! It was a miracle he was alive. But now =Danny had to think. He had to do precisely, exactly the right thing. =Johnny," he said, "I'm going to start getting the rocks off you. I'm going to uncover you gradually so I can pull you out." "Wait! Wait!" The voice was anxious. "That won't work!" =Danny waited, and it was so quiet in the pass he could hear his watch tick, his heart beat, his breath leave and enter his lungs. Then =Johnny spoke again. "It's a fault in the rock formation. My head is clear. My head was beyond the fault when the sides came down." He stopped talking. His voice had weakened, become more distant. "But how am I going to... if I can't take the rocks away?" "You'll have to start at the top. You'll have to make the sides secure. Otherwise, as you lift rocks out, more will come down. There was a bad fault and it slid." "But that'll take forever!" "Not forever, and I can hold out." "But it will soon be dark!" "That's the only way. I saw it. There was a break in the wall," Johnny said, and now his voice was little more than a whisper. "I'm going for help," =Danny said. "I'm going to make a run to the lodge for help." "Don't leave me!" =Johnny suddenly sounded scared. "Don't leave me. It's been terrible here all alone. It's been awful, just terrible!" He was quiet. =Danny asked, "=Johnny, you all right?" There was no answer, except what sounded like sobbing. "=Johnny!" =Danny heard his own voice roll and rebound with a vibration that started a stone bouncing until it hit the floor with a thud. =Danny sat back against the side of the pass and for the first time he noticed his shirt was wet with sweat. He noticed that salt from perspiration was stinging his eyes. He noticed that he was trembling. Every time just before I take off in a race, I always feel like I'm in a dream, the kind of dream you have when you're sick with fever and feel all hot and weightless. I dream I'm flying over a sandy beach in the early morning sun, kissing the leaves of the trees as I fly by. And there's always the smell of apples, just like in the country when I was little and used to think I was a =choo-choo train, running through the fields of corn and chugging up the hill to the orchard. And all the time I'm dreaming this, I get lighter and lighter until I'm flying over the beach again, getting blown through the sky like a feather that weighs nothing at all. But once I spread my fingers in the dirt and crouch over the Get on Your Mark, the dream goes and I am solid again and am telling myself, Squeaky you must win, you must win, you are the fastest thing in the world, you can even beat your father up Amsterdam if you really try. And then I feel my weight coming back just behind my knees then down to my feet then into the earth and the pistol shot explodes in my blood and I am off and weightless again, flying past the other runners, my arms pumping up and down and the whole world is quiet except for the crunch as I zoom over the gravel in the track. I glance to my left and there is no one. To the right, a blurred =Gretchen, who's got her chin jutting out as if it would win the race all by itself. And on the other side of the fence is =Raymond with his arms down to his side and the palms tucked up behind him, running in his very own style, and it's the first time I ever saw that and I almost stop to watch my brother =Raymond on his first run. But the white ribbon is bouncing toward me and I tear past it, racing into the distance till my feet with a mind of their own start digging up footfuls of dirt and brake me short. Then all the kids standing on the side pile on me, banging me on the back and slapping my head with their May Day programs, for I have won again and everybody on =151st Street can walk tall for another year. "In first place" the man on the loudspeaker is clear as a bell now. But then he pauses and the loudspeaker starts to whine. Then static. And I lean down to catch my breath and here comes =Gretchen walking back, for she's overshot the finish line too, huffing and puffing with her hands on her hips, taking it slow, breathing in steady time like a real pro and I sort of like her a little for the first time. "In first place" and then three or four voices get all mixed up on the loudspeaker and I dig my sneaker into the grass and stare at =HarveyShinwell delivered our papers. He was a heavily built boy of about sixteen, with colourless eyebrows and a pallid mottled face. After school he would go and pick up the papers from the station and deliver them on his old bicycle. He was somebody who had always been around and whom I had never actually seen. Until that winter. =Nanuk had the run of the yard, but the gates were kept closed. The picket fence was high, and the wooden pieces were driven deep into the earth, so =Nanuk could neither get over nor tunnel under. I took him out on walks with me but apart from that he stayed in the yard. This did not mean he was too much confined, however, for our yard was nearly a hectare. One day I got home from school just as =HarveyShinwell had come to the gate and thrown the =WinnipegFreePress onto our front porch. He didn't get back on his bike immediately. He was standing at the gate, and when I approached along the sidewalk I could see what he was doing. In his hand he held a short pointed stick. He was poking it through the bars of the gate. On the other side was =Nanuk, only four months old, but snarling in a way I had never heard before. He was trying to catch the stick with his teeth, but =Harvey withdrew it too quickly. Then =Harvey jabbed it in again, and this time it caught =Nanuk in the face. He yelped with the pain of it, but he was not driven away. He came back again, trying to get hold of the stick, and once more =Harvey with a calm deliberation drove the wooden javelin at the dog. "What do you think you're doing?" I yelled. "You leave my dog alone, you hear?" =Harvey looked up with a lethargic grin and mounted his bike. "He tried to bite me," he said. "He's dangerous." "He is not!" I cried, infuriated. "I saw!" "Why don't you run and tell your mother, then?" =Harvey said, in phony falsetto. I went inside the yard and knelt in the snow beside =Nanuk. He was getting too big for me to lift him. He seemed to have forgotten about the stick. He welcomed me in his usual way, jumping up, taking my wrist gently between his jaws and pretending to bite but holding it so carefully that he never left even the faint marks of his teeth. I forgot about the stick then, also. =Nanuk was enough of a problem He had a big box full of very interesting things and he told me he was working hard to make enough money to bring his wife and children out from =Germany. He spoke so feelingly about them that it touched my heart. I wanted to buy something from him to help him in such a worthy project. Then all at once I saw the bottle of hair dye. The peddler said it was warranted to dye any hair to a beautiful raven black and wouldn't wash off. In a trice I saw myself with beautiful raven black hair and the temptation was irresistible. But the price of the bottle was seventy-five cents and I had only fifty cents left out of my chicken money. I think the peddler had a very kind heart, for he said that, seeing it was me, he'd sell it for fifty cents and that was just giving it away. So I bought it, and as soon as he had gone I came up here and applied it with an old hair-brush as the directions said. I. used up the whole bottle, and oh, =Marilla, when I saw the dreadful colour it turned my hair I repented of being wicked, I can tell you. And I've been repenting ever since." "Well, I hope you'll repent to good purpose," said =Marilla severely, "and that you've got your eyes opened to where your vanity has led you, =Anne. Goodness knows what's to be done. I suppose the first thing is to give your hair a good washing and see if that will do any good." Accordingly, =Anne washed her hair, scrubbing it vigorously with soap and water, but for all the difference it made she might as well have been scouring its original red. 'The peddler had certainly spoken the truth when he declared that the dye wouldn't wash off, however his veracity might be impeached in other respects. "Oh, =Marilla, what shall I do?" questioned =Anne in tears. "I can never live this down. People have pretty well forgotten my other mistakes the liniment cake and flying into a temper with Mrs =Lynde. But they'll never forget this. They will think I am not respectable. Oh, =Marilla, `what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive.' That is poetry, but it is true. And oh, how =JosiePye will laugh! =Marilla, I cannot face =Josie =Pye. I am the unhappiest girl in =PrinceEdwardIsland." =Anne's unhappiness continued for a week. During that time she went nowhere and shampooed her hair every day. =Diana alone of outsiders knew the fatal secret, but she promised solemnly never to tell, and it may be stated here and now that she kept her word. he reached the base of the hill he had moved past five runners and was closing quickly on another. The realization came to him that quite a few of the other guys were more tired than he was, had less left. Every runner he passed from here in lowered his team's score by a point - and that could make the difference between finishing fourth and fifth, say, or fifth and sixth. He had gone by =Joey back in the woods, so that made him the third man for the =Wormburners. Well, he would just have to accept the challenges as they came, take them on one by one, do his best to push it all the way home. =Rick, too, had passed =Joey. It had been all he could do to fight off the natural inclination to stop and help his unfortunate teammate whose pain was obviously so much greater than his own. But that would have violated the mystique, betrayed the code. And so he had just slapped the seat of Joey's torn red shorts in silent compassion and gone by. "Hang in, =Rick!" =Joey had shouted after him. "Pour it on! You can do it, baby!" But he couldn't do it, not that day, not with the pain tearing away at his side. Then magically, a rabbit appeared from out of the hat. Suddenly the side ache he had hosted for almost five kilometers eased. A few anxious seconds later it was no more. I can't believe it, he thought; it's happened it really isn't there any more! With the weight of the pain gone, like a reprieve from Death Row, he felt incredibly strong. He began to move. Free, thank goodness, free at last! But it was so late, almost too late in the game. Back near the finish line Coach =Calladine and =Stanislaus, along with several hundred other spectators, waited in hushed expectancy, the tension growing with every passing second. "Why don't you say something?" the coach shouted. "I can't talk." "Then shut up." The pain in the coach's leg was excruciating. =Debbie had again left them, in search of a better view. It was she who first flashed the word, her graceful, strong legs pumping as she sprinted back toward the finish line. "They're coming!" There was a sudden rush for front-row positions. =Stanislaus and =Debbie maneuvered the wheelchair into a preferred location. "Way to go," the coach said. "This is fine." "Your music helped me to locate you," =Louise admitted. Then, cautiously, not to hurt his feelings, she asked, "What were you playing?" "Oh, didn't you recognize it?" =Wayne had recovered his sense of humour quickly. "That was my theme song, `=OhBuryMeNotontheLonePrairie'. Appropriate, don't you think? We'd better get going. Sun's down now." =Louise retrieved her scarf but insisted on =Wayne wearing his windbreaker. He was still shivering after his long entombment in cold clay. She picked up the knapsack of smaller rocks with a grimace. But it felt like nothing compared with the hefty chunk now in the truck. Should she tell =Wayne about the rattlesnake? She wasn't very proud of the story, but she, really should warn him. "I was certainly lucky," she concluded. "Rattlesnake venom can kill a person if it hits you right. Come on, let's make a lot of noise. That'll scare any snake out of our way." Wayne struck up his theme song: Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie, Where the wild coyote will howl over me, Where the blizzard roars and the wind blows free, Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie. This is crazy, =Louise thought with a grin. As they were stumbling along in the twilight with a half-moon rising behind them, they sang at the top of their lungs. The eroded =Badlands echoed to all the western songs they could remember. "=Bloodon =theSaddle" "=SilverontheSage, =RideAroundLittleDogies" Darkness had fallen in the coulee when =Wayne suddenly exclaimed, "Carlights up ahead! We must be nearly there. Oh, it's the pickup. But who oh, Louise you left the lights on to be a beacon. That was a great idea!" =Louise didn't know what to say, but =Wayne's comment made her smile, and when she declared she was starving, he was bold enough to promise her the best steak dinner in =Drumheller. much as these hard-working ranchers. He had been sheltered from the hard side of life until now, and this was the first summer he'd been old enough for a work permit. He knew perfectly well that he would never have had a chance at any job on the crew, except thât his uncle was head of the exploration party. It still galled =Wayne that his father had pulled strings. =Wayne hadn't wanted to come to =Alberta. "You'll gain valuable work experience and meet all kinds of new people," Mr =Anderson had insisted. He had met the =Mitchells, especially =Louise. She seemed alarmingly capable for fifteen. =Wayne wished he had some great knowledge or ability with which to impress her, but so far he could do only one thing she couldn't, -he could drive a car. He reminded himself he'd better get cracking. The =Mitchells always liked to get going early on any project, and it was a one kilometer walk to the ranch house. He made himself a little breakfast of buttered muffins in the cookhouse trailer without disturbing the cook, then strode out across the sage-tufted rangeland, whistling as loudly as the meadowlarks on the fence posts. =Louise stood at the screen door, watching him come up the lane. She wore her hair in two stubby braids, so that she looked younger than her fifteen years. "Isn't this a perfect day?" she called. "Oh, =Wayne, the expedition is off! =Stan has to help =Dad with the haying. We've got to make use of any fine weather we have because wheat harvest starts soon." "Sorry about that." =Wayne sounded more jaunty than he felt. He was bitterly disappointed. "Well, if your =Dad would trust me with the but I felt as if I'd shed about eighteen skins. "=Katurah!" someone whispered. It was =Sandy again. "Do you want to be in our group?" "Pardon?" I asked in bewilderment. Obviously I'd been daydreaming again. "Do you want to work with =Phil and me on the project?" " okay," I mumbled, not having the foggiest clue what we were doing or who =Phil was. "Mrs =Clarke! Oh, Mrs =Clarke," =Sandy called. "We've got a group now. =Phil and =Katurah and me." "Fine," said Mrs =Clarke. "Now, class, time is almost up. Do some preliminary work on your project tonight. You'll have tomorrow's period to discuss your ideas with your group." Just then the bell rang. =Sandy and another girl walked out of the room with me. "Did you bring your lunch?" =Sandy asked. "Yes," I said. "It's in my locker, wherever that is." "What number is it?" "=Fifteen =twenty-eight." "Hey, that's just down the hall from ours," exclaimed the dark-haired girl with =Sandy. "Yeah," said =Sandy. "=Phil and I'll walk you down to yours." "Oh great," I said, glancing at the dark-haired girl. This was =Phil? Somehow I figured =Phil would be a boy =Philip or =Philmer or something like that. "Oh yes, this is =Phil," announced =Sandy. "Hi," nodded the girl. "Bet you're called ='Kat', right?" "Right!" I exclaimed. "How did you know?" "It's logical, really. =Phil for =Philomena, so it should be =Kat for =Katurah. Smart, eh?" "Very," I nodded, grinning my whole face off. Someone actually had a name even worse than mine! "Is your name really =Philomena?" I couldn't help myself. After all, this was supposed to be my worst day ever. "Yes. Terrible, eh? Good old Grandmother =Philomena." "You're kidding!" I laughed. "I don't believe this! My great-grandmother did it to me!" Then came the real clincher. &&000 &&000 CANADIAN SCHOOLBOOKS 2004 WAS CA8072.TXT 7TH GRADE 2nd sample 12 Jan 2004 from OISE/UT edited by dph 19 Jan 2004 &&111 I breathed in the wonderful smell. Through the window over the stove, I saw the alley-blackberry bushes, spider webs, all sorts of wild and tangled things. This was the hiding place of the famous raccoons, which you couldn't see now, in the daylight. But they, were in there somewhere. Sleeping behind their masks. Even in the daytime, the back alley had a mysterious look to it, full of shadows and secrets. Bulldoze the whole thing? I hoped =Avery wouldn't. I loved the place. To me, it was just as much a part of the =café as the couch and =Avery's brown beret. Besides, I needed those bushes: Every summer, since I'd first come to work at Avery's, I'd made the jam; I usually made so much that it lasted till the new crop came in . Which brought me right back to the =Ultrasuede women. I climbed on a high stool and in my head continued the conversation with =Bryan: You think it doesn't matter how your parents feel about me, and maybe you're right. It's your life and all that jazz. But listen, they're paying your bills, they deserve a little I had to stop, though. I had to ask myself what, and how much, they deserved. This is a rough world we live in, getting rougher every day, so if you find someone you really love, are you supposed to just forget that person because of your parents? From the doorway, I heard =Avery's voice. "You think I should bulldoze?" "Huh?" "Or maybe just leave the whole thing as it is and set out the traps I don't know I like the alley You like the alley I've seen you out there in the mornings. =Avery, will you kindly let me alone a couple of minutes more?" He had the beret in his hands and was twisting it. "Remember last summer? Remember how we picked blackberries by the pailfuls?" "Will you just flake off, =Avery?" A moment of silence, then the beret was back on his head. "You've got a sharp tongue there, kid. I was simply asking your opinion. " "All right, I'm sorry." "If I were you, I'd watch that tongue." " I said I was sorry Look you're not the only one who has He came up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder, patting me the way you pat a child. "There are times when you definitely I -k 'e. remind me of those blackberry bushes," he said. "A person's got to be careful around you, or they might get scratched." "So you knew," =Minta whispered the word. "You knew all the time." She looked down in surprise as a hot tear dropped on her hand and she dashed it away almost impatiently. She picked up another package and read the tag. To =Minta from =Mother with love. She put all the other packages back in the suitcase and carried the cases back into the closet. Poor =Dad, she thought. "She never knew," she could hear him saying. "Not even at the last." =Minta opened the box beside the bed and took out a sweater and pale green slip. She brushed the tears away and went down the stairs and out into the cheerless living room. "I'd like to keep these things, Dad," she said in her most matter-of-fact voice, and she showed him the sweater and slip. "The slip is a little big but I'll grow into it. It it looks like her, I think." She went around the room, snapping on the lamps, turning on the television that had been silent for so long. She was aware that his eyes followed her, that he could hardly avoid noticing the tear stains on her cheeks. "I think I'll have an apple," she said. "Want one?" He nodded. "Sure. Bring me one as long as you're making the trip." It was natural. It was almost like old times, except that the blue chair by the fireplace was vacant. She went out into the kitchen hurriedly. "I'll tell him that I pestered =Mother to do her shopping early this year," she told herself as she got the apples from the refrigerator. "I'll tell him that it was my idea. She wanted him to believe that she didn't know." The vitamin pills were pushed back on a shelf. She took them out of the refrigerator and put them on the window sill where she would be sure to see them in the morning. When she came back into the living room she noticed that a light in a =Christmas wreath was winking on and off in the =Kellys' window across the street. "I guess we should start thinking about =Christmas, =Dad." She tossed him an apple as she spoke and he caught it deftly. She hesitated for just a moment and then walked over and sat down in the blue chair by the fire, as if she belonged there, and looked across at her father, and smiled. When =Grace approached a wild cobra, she moved her hand back and forth just outside the snake's range. The cobra would then strike angrily until it became tired. Then it was reluctant to strike again. =Grace's next move was to raise her hand over the snake's hood and bring it down slowly. Because of its method of rearing, a cobra cannot strike directly upward, and =Grace could actually touch the top of the snake's head. The snake became puzzled and I frustrated. It felt that it was fighting an invulnerable opponent who, after all, didn't seem to mean it any harm. Then came the final touch. =Grace would put her open palm toward the snake. At last the cobra was able to hit her. But it had to bite and it could not get a grip on the flat surface of the palm. If it could get a finger or a loose fold of skin it could fasten his teeth in it and start chewing. But its strike is sufficiently slow that =Grace could meet each blow with the flat of her palm. At last =Grace would be able to get her hand over the snake's head and stroke its hood. This seemed to relax the reptile and from then on =Grace could handle it with some degree of confidence. I don't mean to suggest that this is a cut-and-dried procedure. =Grace knew snakes perfectly and could tell by tiny, subtle indications what the reptile would probably do next. She had been bitten many times she would never tell me just how many but never by a cobra. You're only bitten once by a cobra. "Now I'll show you what I know you're waiting to see," said =Grace as she put the snake away. "My mated pair of king cobras." Dropping her voice reverently, she added, "I call the big male `The King of Kings.' " She led the way to a large enclosure and for the first time in my life I was looking into the eyes of that dread reptile, the king cobra or =hamadryad.. The common cobra is rarely more than five feet long. Even so, it has enough venom in its poison glands to kill fifty men. =Grace's king cobras were more than fifteen feet long. The two hamadryads contained enough venom, if injected drop by drop, to kill nearly a thousand human beings. That wasn't all. The hamadryad is the only snake known to attack without any provocation. These fearful creatures have been reported to trail a man through a jungle for the express purpose of biting him. They are so aggressive that they toi have closed roads in =India by driving away all traffic. This is probably because the hamadryads, unlike other snakes, guard their eggs and young, and if a pair sets up housekeeping in a district, every other living thing must get out, including elephants. When a king cobra rears up, it stands higher than the head of a kneeling man. They are unquestionably the most dangerous animal in the world today. Each clay's run through the heavily populated centers of southern =Ontario becomes a parade. Donations pour in. The crowds, the support, are wonderful, but exhausting. The heat is stifling, and everyone tries to persuade =Terry to settle for thirty kilometers a day instead of pushing for forty. But =Terry won't slow down. THE PRESSURE eases when =Terry heads north. There are still crowds and receptions to face, but the weather is cooler and the towns are farther apart. =Terry has his twenty-second birthday in =Gravenhurst, =Ontario. He runs thirty-two kilometres before he is whisked off to a birthday celebration. There are birthday telegrams from everywhere. One from =BritishColumbia has =1000 signatures. About this time a newspaperman reports having seen blood running down =Terry's artificial leg. With Terry so much in the news, there is an immediate uproar about it. =Terry is said to have "terrible problems." Some people are saying he has run far enough and should quit. =Terry says the blood is nothing new to him, and the pain is mild compared to what cancer victims suffer. He runs forty-two kilometers to prove there's no reason for worry. Or is there? Perhaps =TerryFox is not faring as well as he says. =Darrell notices that running is much more of an effort for =Terry. His temper is short. He needs his private time. THERE ARE still many victories for =Terry. People have been telling him for weeks how difficult it will be to make it up the steep =Montreal River Hill near =Wawa, =Ontario. When the time comes, =Terry runs the three kilometres uphill without his usual break. "Is that it?" he grins victoriously at the top. Another time, =Terry is joined on the road by ten-year-old =GregScott. =Greg, like -Terry, has lost a leg to cancer. =Terry pounds out ten kilometres while =Greg keeps up on his bicycle. =Terry is inspired! =Greg has brought him fresh assurance that the =MarathonofHope is worth every step. =Terry has now run two-thirds of the way across =Canada. He feels an even deeper commitment to the =MarathonofHope and to the people of =Canada than when he started: he won't let them down now. And yet, despite the good times, things aren't quite right for =Terry. NEARING =THUNDERBay, =Ontario, =Terry feels a sharp pain in his chest. He is about thirty kilometres out of the city: crowds are lining the road. =Terry is not about to disappoint them. He runs. A camera crew is filming him. The crowd is cheering. Someone yells, "You can make it all the way, =Terry!" But =Terry knows that his run is over at least for now. When he reaches the van he hoists himself in and asks to be taken to the hospital. A doctor examines =Terry, takes X-rays and calls in a specialist. =Terry guesses the truth before they tell him: it is cancer again, this time in his lungs. =Terry's parents come at once from =Vancouver to take him home. At a press conference before he leaves =ThunderBay, =Terry says: "I'll fight. I promise I won't give up . The thing about cancer [is that] I'm not the only one. It happens all the time to other people. This just intensifies what I did. It gives it more meaning. It'll inspire more people. I'd like to see everybody go kind of wild, inspired with the fund-raising." =INSPIRED fund-raising" is exactly what happens. A nation-wide telecast is organized-a tribute to =TerryFox. =Terry watches from his hospital bed. He can't believe his eyes! Celebrities like =JohnDenver, =AnneMurray, =EltonJohn, =GlenCampbell, =GordonLightfoot and =Nana. In the morning Mrs =Starr made the children eat a tuna fish sandwich left over from yesterday's lunch. Then she had =Andy take everything out of the trunk and glove compartment. He laid the items on the ground in front of her. From the trunk came a twentyfoot length of heavy rope for towing, a flashlight, a lug wrench for removing a wheel, a jack, a box of tools for emergency repairs, and a couple of oily rags. From the glove compartment =Andy took several maps, a plastic bottle of white glue, a box of =Kleenex, and a pencil. Then from the backseat =Andy dragged a plastic bucket full of such toys as an empty water pistol, a coloring book, a box of crayons that belonged to =Madge, and several comic books. There was also a pair of toy binoculars that Andy had been using to look for rattlesnakes. Mrs =Starr now set about making a distress signal. With =Andy's help, she wrestled the spare tire out of the trunk and propped it against a low bush. If she could set the tire on fire with gasoline, the column of smoke should be seen for miles around, and possibly by a passing airplane. But gasoline was dangerous, she knew, just as likely to explode as to catch fire. And that tire was full of air that would also explode with the heat. Then she thought of the rearview mirror. With a screwdriver from the tool box she and =Andy took the mirror off the car. If a plane flew over, =Andy could flash the mirror to attract the pilot's attention. Andy, who was a =BoyScout, knew the signal for an SOS-three longs, three shorts, three longs. He would pass his hand over the face of the mirror quickly for a short and not so quickly for a long. Andy was delighted to be put in charge of signaling aircraft, and every once in a while he would practice making his SOS signals. Mrs =Starr now tackled the problem of getting water. She knew f there was still some left in the bottom of the radiator. =Andy managed to open the drain valve with a pair of pliers and catch the remaining liquid in his plastic bucket. But Mrs =Starr was bitterly disappointed when she looked at the orange-colored antifreeze. She tasted it and spat out. No one could possibly drink it. However, she didn't throw it away. Instead, she dampened a rag with the fluid and wiped her children's faces with it. It helped to cool them off, and every hour or so she would give =Andy and =Madge another face bath with the antifreeze. All day she thought about how to make a good signal fire. There was oil in the engine. Perhaps she could use it to set fire to the spare tire. Again =Andy proved to be a big help. He crawled under the engine, found the drain plug, and let enough oil run out to thoroughly soak some rags and clothing. He replaced the plug and lost his balance. The cry was pinched off short as the blood warm waters of the =Caribbean Sea closed over his head. He struggled up to the surface and tried to cry out, but the wash from the speeding yacht slapped him in the face, and the salt water in his open mouth made him gag and strangle. Desperately he struck out with strong strokes after the receding lights of the yacht, but he stopped before he had swum fifty feet. A certain coolheadedness had come to him; it was not the first time he had been in a tight place. There was a chance that his cries could be heard by someone abroad the yacht, but that chance was slender, and grew more slender as the yacht raced on. He wrestled himself out of his clothes, and shouted with all his power. The lights of the yacht became faint and ever-vanishing fireflies; then they were blotted out entirely by the night. =Rainsford remembered the shots. They had come from the right, and doggedly he swam in that direction, swimming with slow, deliberate strokes, conserving his strength. For a seemingly endless time he fought the sea. He began to count his strokes; he could do possibly a hundred more and then =Rainsford heard a sound. It came out of the darkness, a high, screaming sound, the sound of an animal in an extremity of anguish and terror. He did not recognize the animal that made the sound; he did not try to; with fresh vitality he swam toward the sound. He heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato. "Pistol shot," muttered =Rainsford, swimming on. Ten minutes of determined effort brought another sound to his ears-the most welcome he had ever heard-the muttering and growling of the sea breaking on a rocky shore. He was almost on the rocks before he saw them; on a night less calm he would have been shattered against them. With his remaining strength he dragged himself from the swirling waters. Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness; he forced himself upward, hand over hand. Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat place at the top. Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs. What perils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not concern =Rainsford just then. All he knew was that he was safe from his enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him. He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life. When he opened his eyes he knew from the position of the sun that it was late in the afternoon. Sleep had given him new vigor; a sharp hunger was picking at him. showers. Ile closed the door. I-le hadn't undressed or showered but sat on a settee beside me. Others coming through to the showers closed the door behind them to keep the room a little more private. A ghettoblaster roared rock music from across the room. It isn't the kind of music =Wayne goes for, incidentally. He likes anything that's easy to listen to, he said, but that's when he's at home, not when he's in a place where others might have different tastes. There is a lot that no one has to ask =Gretzky. That's the past. There are not many, even those who do not follow hockey, who are unaware of what he had done long before he turned =24, on January 26. His =50 goal weekend as a kid. His playing with =10 year-olds when he was five (but could already out-skate many twice his age). The =Gretzky backyard rink in =Brantford, =Ont., where =WalterGretzky taught the boy what he could, which was plenty, not only in hockey technique but in attitudes-including the one toward hard work. His time as a junior, when he scored =70 goals in =64 games with =SaultSteMarie while also working to improve his checking. His multimillion dollar contract which he wrote out himself and signed in an airplane to turn pro at =17. His amazing play with the =Oilers in the old =WorldHockeyAssociation when some =NHL'ers tended to say right out loud that the kid would never do that stuff in a stronger league. His proving to everybody that he could do it anywhere the game was played, =51 =NHL goals and a tie for the league points-scoring =Championship, the =Hart and =Byng trophies, and center on the second all-star team the winter he turned =19, his first in the =NHL. His record =91 goals and =212 total points the year he turned =21. His girl friend =VickieMoss who has her own career as a cabaret singer. His closeness to his parents, =Walter and =Phyllis, and to his brothers and sister. His reverence for his grandmother and her small farm near =Brantford, where he is loved as a grandson, not as the world's greatest hockey player. (Once he said that he would rather spend a free afternoon at her farm than go out and do something else that would make him =$20,000). His long list of national and international awards, including that of =OfficeroftheOrderofCanada, and =SportsIllustrated's Sportsman of the Year. In the same short period he also became the greatest media star ever in hockey. Yet all along lie has been evolving, changing. He has admitted that as the pressures on him get stronger he's found himself less and less patient. How did the shorter fuse operate? The ghetto-blaster blared, keeping the conversation private because no voice could be heard from more than a couple of feet away. "Well, it's just," he all but sighed, "I'm at the point now where I've played five years in the =NationalHockeyLeague and for a while all the things that were said about =WayneGretzky didn't bother me at all. But now after all that's happened fortunate enough to play for a great hockey club, won a =StanleyCup some of those things are still being said and written about me, about my skating, my checking, my speed. It's beginning to bother me a little bit when those things are inaccurate and pointless." I mentioned feeling in the hotel lobby that he'd been annoyed at being interrupted in his dash for open country. "Well, I didn't know you at first-but I know I have a responsibility not only to the team but to the league to promote the game as much as I can. Where I'm different now is that if I have free time, it stays free time. Before, if somebody came up to me and asked me to do something in what I'd counted on as free time, I'd maybe not be happy but I'd give it up to do this or that. Not any more. Now things are set up in advance. If things aren't set up, that's my free time and I won't change it, it's too valuable. Not that it wasn't important a couple of years ago, but it means a lot more to me than it used to, to be able to just go out privacy what he calls "free time" in which lie can keep his batteries charged, spend time with his girl friend or his family, go out for a few hours with his team-mates or sometimes just sit at home alone watching television. The management of =EdmontonOilers knows this full well. When I was trying to line up an interview and suggested =Pittsburgh or =NewJersey, I was told =Pittsburgh would be fine, =NewJersey next to impossible. "The =NewYork media has been lining up for weeks to get at him there everybody. TV, newspapers, radio, magazines, commercial people. You name it," said the club's =PR director, =BillTuele. I got into the =Pittsburgh =Hyatt on a Monday afternoon and asked at the desk if the =Oilers were in. "Expected soon," the man said. His own word "soon" made him jump. "Gotta lay out the keys," he said hurriedly to another man. Quickly he carried a table to a place directly in front of the main revolving door and began to lay out keys in envelopes identified by name and room number. He arranged them in alphabetical order so that when the mighty =Edmontons came through the door each could grab a key and be at the elevator in seconds. A few minutes later the =Oilers streamed through the door, grabbing keys and heading for their rooms. I chatted with a couple of people, friends of =Wayne's father, =Walter, in town to see the game. Eventually one of them said to me, "There's your man." I looked up. =Gretzky and two other players were heading rapidly for the door to the street. For a beer, a movie, a walk, who knows. I got up and said, "=Wayne." I saw his look when he stopped. His expression, I thought, said "=Dammit!" He told me later he hadn't felt that way, but that is the look I saw. He's taller than I'd imagined him to be six feet and =170 pounds, the record books say. A little taller and about the same weight as =RocketRichard. I mentioned that I'd called =BillTuele about talking to him here. "when would be a good time?" "How about tomorrow after we practice?" he said. "Sure. See you then. The next day the papers were full of =Gretzky. I walked across to the =Arena to watch the game-day skates. =PittsburghPenguins were on the ice first. One film crew was following =MarioLemieux, but two or three others sat back to wait for the =Oilers. They straggled to the ice in twos and threes. =Gretzky, about the middle of the arrivals, was dressed in a red shirt. As he reached the ice he glided on one skate while he lifted the other and peered at the blade. He did this to each skate, then flipped a blooper into the net from well out. As the =Oilers skated circuits he was just one man, calling back and forth with the others, talking like any hockey player, with a few censorable expressions along the way; laughing a lot and often with a big grin showing below his long, straight nose. Sometimes he burst into that angular skating style that earned him the nickname Pretzel when he was a junior in =SaultSteMarie. I recalled he once said, "You know the only place where I can go to get away from it (the pressure) during the season, the only place I can ;totally relax? On the ice." He was relaxing. Once he fanned on a slapshot. Once when =GlenSather was feeding out pucks for line rushes, he whistled =Gretzky's line back, dissatisfied, and started it again. You could hear =Wayne's call, "What happened?" =Sather didn't answer. There was no impression at all that one man was the game's greatest star. When it was over, =Gretzky was first to the gate leading off the ice. I was sitting nearby. The corridor led to the =Oilers' dressing room. =Gretzky caught my eye, and jerked his head. It had to be fast. Other reporters and film crews were coming for him from all directions. I pushed open the dressing room door. =Wayne beckoned me through the main room into a smaller area between the dressing room and the But he told his story at a time when lie had no reason to suspect there was anything strange about it. Does this mean that we have proof that Lieutenant =Larkin saw the ghost of his dear friend? Not necessarily. There are several other possible explanations. Let's take a look at them. The first possible explanation is that the story is a hoax. Many ghost stories that are supposed to be real turn out to be false. People make them up in order to attract attention, or just to have a good story to tell. If this account is a hoax, then it could not have been =Larkin's alone. =GarnerSmith would have to be in on it. Considering everything a hoax does not seem very likely in this case. It would mean that two =RAF officers were telling lies about the death of their friend and fellow officer. Many, many =RAF men had been killed during the war. Death was not the sort of thing that any of them took lightly. Even if they had wanted to fool the other men at the base, it would have been downright cruel to tell the story to the dead man's family. But =Larkin did tell the story to the family. He told them in writing. =GarnerSmith later confirmed the story to =SPR investigators. We cannot prove that this ghost story was not the result of a hoax. But that explanation does not really seem to fit. Another possible explanation is mistaken identity. Sometimes people think they have seen the ghost of someone dead. Then it turns out that what they have seen is a living person who resembles the dead person. =Larkin did not see the figure he took to be =McConnell for long. It was eight feet away, standing in a doorway. The light was not good. He spoke to the figure and the figure answered. But, if you recall, he never addressed the figure as =McConnell. Nor did the figure ever say it was =McConnell. =Larkin just assumed that it was because it looked like =McConnell, and had entered the room he shared with =McConnell at about the time he expected =McConnell to be there. The figure was wearing a flight suit. On the base there must have been dozens of young men about the same age and size as =McConnell who might have been wearing flight suits at that time. If one of them had wandered into the room, he might have looked very much like =McConnell. He might have-except for the hat. Remember that =McConnell usually wore a =Navy cap instead of the usual flight helmet. He was the only man on the base to do that. The figure in the doorway was also wearing a Navy cap. Mistaken identity can be ruled out. There is another possible explanation. =Larkin may have dreamed that he saw =McConnell. He insists that he was awake. We know he was awake when =GarnerSmith came into the room. But we cannot be sure that he did not doze off somewhat earlier. Sometimes people who are sitting quietly can fall asleep without knowing it. Dreams are strange things. When we dream we are not completely cut off from the outside world. We can hear noises and feel sensations. Sometimes we fit these outside noises and sensations into our dreams. Many people begin to dream of fire engines or police sirens when they hear their alarm clocks ringing in the morning. Something of the sort may have happened to Lieutenant =Larkin. It might have happened this way. =Larkin was sitting in his room and dozed off. In his sleep he heard footsteps, real ones, in the hall. Then he heard a door slam-not his door, but another one in the building. These sounds may have become part of his dream. =McConnell had already told him he would be back that afternoon. Larkin may have been anxious for his roommate to come back in time for them to go out that evening. So when he heard the footsteps, and the door slam in his sleep, he may have dreamed that =McConnell had returned. &&000