Free The Curious Adventures of Jimmy McGee by Eleanor Estes

the owners thought they were bursting and yelled for the plumber, who couldn't be everywhere at once. So he took the phone off the hook and went back to bed with liniment on his legs.
    By now Jimmy had checked all his charts and had his bearings. He knew the eye of the storm would not be here in Truro. Though it might veer out to sea and wear itself out, the edge of the storm would be bad anyway. He was glad he had slam-banged the pipes as hard as he had.
    He did know, though, that the storm would be worse in Washington, D.C., and he wanted to be back home in his winter headquarters before the storm broke there and to have Amy's family get home before then, too.
    The waters of the Potomac might be so high they might whish right over the feet of the great, beautiful statue of Abraham Lincoln ... who knows? The accuracy of Jimmy McGee's forecasting had been more than a little bit dimmed by the magic spell he had been under while watching the curious antics of Little Lydia. A certain foreboding about Little Lydia did persist now and then, but he shrugged it off.
    His rounds completed, Jimmy McGee zoomied back to The Bizzy Bee, and from the cellar window he surveyed the going-away preparations. He was happy to see that Papa had backed the old gray Dodge to the kitchen door. The back was open and all the car doors, too. Everyone was busy putting luggage inside somewhere, wherever there was room. Amy was clutching her
Who'
s
Who Book
in her hand like a person taking inventory and making sure everything and everybody was accounted for.
    "We never did find Little Lydia," she said sadly.
    "Never," echoed Clarissa.
    Neither of them realized that she was not far away hopping around in the stovepipe hat of Jimmy McGee. How he wished he could just pop her into the box of dolls and toys when no one was looking! But a zigzag sound on top of his head made him realize he couldn't do that.
    Amy looked down sadly at her box of dolls. "I thought Little Lydia just might have shown up, just might have. Because," she said, "it says in my book, 'But I hope she will be rescued by a
hero!
Well, she never did come back. But, anyway, I still have her little blue shawl." And she put it on top of her
Who
's
Who Book.
    "Woe! Woe!" said Clarissa. This was a word she had lately read in some sad story and now used whether or not it fitted the case.
    No one needed to worry about Wags, the great and beautiful springer spaniel. He had been ready for a long time. He'd been sitting in the driver's seat from the moment Papa had backed the car to the kitchen door. Everyone knew he would not leave this driver's seat, not even to chase the Cape Codder up the tracks, until Papa got in and made him move over. Wags would then sit beside him so that Papa could take hold of the steering wheel.
    Everybody stood still a moment to look at and laugh at Wags. Right now he still had his left front leg on the armrest of the car door. He looked like a driver in disguise ... a dog chauffeur. His red drinking bowl was on the floor by the clutch. There was a bottle of water beside it, so Wags knew the ride was going to be a long one. That made him happy, and he moved Papa's old gray sock from side to side in his mouth.
    This sock looked ridiculous, but he always carried it around with him unless he was eating or drinking. Once in a while Mama had to wash it, but she had the mate to it, a substitute, which Papa had to wear a day or two first to get his smell on it. Wags was a comical sight; but the family did not have time to take a snapshot. Too bad!
    Papa said, "Everybody ready? If there's going to be a hurricane, we want to be home before it gets there."
    Mama said, "I'm ready. Leftover food is in my box here, fruit juice in the thermos, I have my purse. This is the quickest closing-up we ever made. Oh, wait!" she said. "I left Wagsie's spare sock on the porch to dry. I'll get it." This she did and dropped it in Amy's carton in the back, the last carton to be put in the car.
    Papa