Free The Mostly True Adventures of Homer P. Figg by Rodman Philbrick Page A

whole purpose of the war is to end slavery, is it not?”
    “I don’t know what the purpose of the war is,” I tell him, talking around a mouthful of muffins. “I just don’t want Harold getting killed is all.”
    “Of course you don’t,” Frank says, sipping delicately at his glass of milk. “The loyal brother. How touching. And you say this enterprise, this urgent journey to free your brother, is being financed by Jebediah Brewster, of the famous Brewster Mines?”
    I didn’t say no such thing, but Mr. Willow did, blurting out all our private business the first time Miss Nibbly asked. How Mr. Brewster is testing his character by sending him as my guardian, and how he has letters of introduction to very important people, and how he’s been instructed to purchase Harold’s release, if it comes to that.
    He does everything but show her the money entrusted to him by Mr. Brewster, and that’s only because I jump on his shoe.
    “Homer, what has gotten into you?” he asks, rubbing his skinny foot.
    “Time we got on the ship, Mr. Willow.”
    “There’s no hurry,” says Frank Nibbly, showing me his teeth. “No hurry at all.”
    But the other passengers are saying their good-byes and starting to board the steamship
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, and the stewards are loading up the trunks and baggage, and clouds of smoke are coming out of the smokestack. Mr. Willow finally notices what’s happening and jumps up like somebody stuck him with a darning needle.
    “The boy is right!” he blurts. “We must go! Can’t miss the ship!”
    When Mr. Willow makes it clear we really do have to board, I figure that will be the end of it, because something tells me the Nibblys don’t really have tickets for the steamship, but want to trick us into missing the boat so they can figure out how to fool Mr. Willow into giving them the money.
    They’re after the money. I know it and Frank knows it and Kate knows it. The only one who doesn’t know what’s really going on is poor Mr. Willow. I grab him by the cuff and drag him to the gangway, into the crowd of passengers who are boarding. He keeps looking back at Miss Nibbly and she keeps batting her eyelashes, but finally we’re at the top of the gangway and a man is asking for our tickets.
    “Tickets? Tickets?” says Mr. Willow, looking confused. He pats his pockets and my heart sinks, but then he finds the envelope and hands over the tickets and the man is shooing us aboard, telling us to make way for the other passengers.
    My idea is to hurry along to the cabins, but Mr. Willow turns back to the rail, looking for Miss Nibbly in the crowd below.
    Frank and Kate are nowhere to be seen.
    “Where can she have gone?” Mr. Willow wants to know.
    It’s on my tongue to say they’re off looking for another sucker, but the poor man looks so hurt I decide to keep my mouth shut.
     

     
    I F THE CABINS ON THE STEAMSHIP
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were any smaller they’d be cages, and me and Mr. Willow would be clucking like chickens. There’s barely room to open the door, and the bunks are so short and narrow that Mr. Willow has to practically fold himself in half before he can lie down. It’s not so bad for me — I mostly fit — and from the top bunk I can see out the little window. I lie there and watch the light fade from the sky until the stars come out.
    We could walk the promenade deck, like most of the other passengers are doing, or visit the dining room, or maybe even explore the steam engines, or tour the wheelhouse, but Mr. Willow doesn’t want to leave the cabin. I never seen a man go lovesick before, but there’s no doubt about what’s wrong with Webster Willow. He’s pining for Kate Nibbly. A few hours ago he never knew she existed, and now he can’t live without her.
    “You need to see a doctor,” I advise. “Maybe get some pills, or some leeches to draw away the sick blood.”
    “Shut up, Homer.”
    “See? If you were feeling well, you’d never tell anyone to shut up. You’re much too