Free The Painted Ponies of Partequineus and The Summer of the Kittens by Peter H. Riddle Page A

whole world.
    He was describing how his new plane looked, blue and silver with flaps and a low wing and almost no dihedral, whatever that is, so it would go really fast and do lots of tricks, and a whole lot of other stuff I didn’t really understand, when the car with the college kids drove past. Jimmy waved, and one of the girls, the one sitting in the back seat, saw him and smiled and waved back.
    Most people will wave and smile at a cripple if they don’t have to stop and say anything.
    They drove past Mr. Harding’s house, which is the last one on our street before the railroad tracks. On the other side of the tracks, the road turns to gravel and goes out over the old dykes that the Acadians built to keep the Bay of Fundy from washing away their crops a few hundred years ago. Only now there’s a gate across the road and a big No Trespassing sign.
    â€œWhere are they going?” Jimmy said. “The gate’s always locked, isn’t it?”
    The car coasted across the tracks and up to the gate and the guy who was driving put on the brakes. The right hand stop light was burned out, and blue smoke came out of the tail pipe. He got out and looked at the big chain and padlock that somebody put on the gate, and then got back in the car.
    â€œI bet I know what they’re up to,” I said. “Just watch.”
    The car sat there for a few minutes. I saw the girl in the back turn around and look toward Jimmy. I guess she thought he was all by himself, since she couldn’t see me way up in the tree. She looked kind of nervous, like she didn’t want anybody to see what they were going to do. I wondered if she even saw Mr. Harding on his porch.
    Then the car backed up and turned around and started toward us again, close to the curb on the other side. It stopped beside the vacant lot.  I was pretty sure what would happen next. It’s just a big empty lot, it gets all overgrown with weeds every spring, and there’s always somebody dumping trash there for somebody else like my Dad to have to cart away. The dumb college kids are the worst. They clean out their apartments at the end of the term and have a bunch of trash to get rid of, so they sneak around and dump it on any vacant lot they can find.
    I could see them through the windshield pretty good. The two in the front seat, the guy and the other girl, were talking - arguing I guess, from the way they were going at it - and the guy was pointing at the vacant lot. He was talking fast, too soft for us to hear because of their noisy engine, even though the car windows were open, and the girl kept shaking her head.  He kind of shrugged and folded his arms in front of him, like I’m not driving until you do what I want.
    They just sat there for a few minutes, and then I saw Mr. Harding get up from his chair and climb down off his porch. He hobbled down the front path toward the street, past the end of the fence so Jimmy could see him too. I think he was mad, although it’s hard to tell with Mr. Harding, ’cause his eyes are always all dark and angry, like the mean old crows that sometimes land on Mom’s bird feeder and spill sunflower seeds all over the lawn. He reached the curb and stopped, his hands on his hips and his chin sort of thrust forward like the figurehead on a pirate ship.
    The guy behind the wheel looked at him and then turned toward the girl again. I heard her say, much louder than before, “All right! ” She opened the door and reached down on the floor in front of her. I couldn’t see what she did next, but as soon as she shut the door again, the guy put the car in gear and took off really fast. They disappeared around the corner, going in the direction of the highway.
    â€œWhat was that all about?” Jimmy said.
    â€œI thought they were gonna dump some garbage,” I said, “but I guess they changed their minds when they saw Mr. Harding watching them.”
    Mr. Harding was