Free The Hunchback Assignments by Arthur Slade

“Who sent you? Tell me, boy.” His shoulders continued to swell, pressing against the fabric of his jacket. A metallic clinking could be heard from under the garment.
    “No one sent me. I—”
    “Liar!” Fuhr’s face twisted with anger. Modo thought he saw mist rising from his collar and then, from the buttonholes of his suit coat. The hissing grew louder. Modo stepped back, bumping the table.
    Steam! It was steam!
    Fuhr grabbed Modo’s collar. “You will tell me who sent you, boy, if I have to break every bone in your body.”
    “But sir, sir, have mercy,” Modo cried out. “Have mercy!”
    “No one will hear you. They are gone. Now answer my question.”
    “Uh, yes …” Modo flailed about until his hand hit a coat-rack. Tharpa’s voice came to him:
Anything can be a weapon.
The thick wooden pole would be hard enough to brain someone. Modo grabbed it and swung at Fuhr’s temple, but Fuhrlifted his forearm and the pole broke in two. Fuhr punched Modo in the chest, and Modo grunted; it felt like his ribs had caved in.
    Steam geysered out the seams of the giant’s clothing. He swung his massive arm again and Modo caught hold of it. Fuhr slammed him up against the wall. Modo wrenched himself away, ripping the sleeve from Fuhr’s jacket. Modo’s jaw dropped. The arm was made of metal! Pistons pushed back and forth between steel bones, the steam pumping out of holes in narrow iron plates. Fuhr swung yet again, Modo ducked and the man’s fist pounded a hole in the wall. Modo shuddered: What such a blow would do to his skull!
    Fuhr grabbed Modo by the neck, the metallic fingers closing around his windpipe. “Stop!” Modo gasped, looking for some way to distract the man. Fuhr squeezed tighter, until Modo could no longer breathe. “You should not have interfered in our affairs,” he said.
    In a last, desperate act, Modo jammed his feet against the wall and lunged forward with all his strength, breaking free of Fuhr’s grip. Gagging and coughing, Modo found himself in the center of the room. He stumbled, then ran, threw himself at the nearest door, hoping and praying his strength and speed would be enough to break it down.
    He hit it hard with his shoulder and, accidentally, his head. He heard a
crack
, but the door didn’t budge. Modo crumpled to the floor as darkness blotted out all thought.

9
The Singing Sparrow
    O ppie delivered a meal of pork buttons and mashed potatoes to Mr. W’s room. He knocked and waited, knocked again, but there was no answer. He wolfed down a few pieces of pork, then lowered the plate to the floor. It would be safe enough here: The lame dog couldn’t climb the stairs and Oppie hadn’t yet seen a rat in these halls.
    It was unusual for Mr. W to be away at mealtime. He seemed to carry on with his business only at night; that is, Oppie had never seen him go out during the day. The chamber pot would be set outside the door every evening, its collection another of Oppie’s duties. Unlike most tenants, Mr. W would at least leave a few pence next to the pot.
    Besides the extra money, Mr. W had given Oppie much advice through the closed door. He’d told the boy he was wise for his age and that his interest in reading should bepursued so he could rise to a better station. He’d also said, “You could be a detective too, young Oppie. You remind me of me when I was younger. You’ve got sharp eyes and a quick mind.” Oppie liked that. A quick mind.
    Mr. W had promised to read him a little more of
Varney the Vampire.
Oppie shuddered at the possibility that such a bloodsucking creature might exist. He peered over his shoulder. You’re all in a twitter, he told himself. He tromped down the stairs, though, hoping the noise would ward away anything that might be lurking in the darkness.
    “Go on home, lad,” the innkeeper muttered when Oppie stomped into the pub. “You’re done for today.”
    Oppie left and trudged along the sidewalk in the dark. His mother was likely still over a