Free Break for the Basket by Matt Christopher Page B

to pay much attention to it. He
     was ready to open the door when he heard a crash. This time he looked. He forgot his anger. The noise came from the basement
     of Mrs. Maxwell’s house.
    Emmett ran across the frozen ground, leaped over the dwarf-sized hedgerow, then onto the Maxwell driveway. He almost fell
     against the side door.
    He pounded against it with his fist.

    “Mr. G.!” he shouted. “Mr. G.! Open up!”
    He heard another crash. What was Mr. G. doing in there?
    Emmett turned the knob and shoved his shoulder against the door. He almost went sprawling. With his hand still on the knob
     he stared at the sight in the room — at the oil paintings strewn over the floor, torn and twisted. Then he stared at the man
     in the middle of the room, a small man with a narrow face and a long, sharp chin. His hair was fire-red, and thick as a lion’s
     mane. His brows were black as tar, and his eyes a heaven-blue. Right now those eyes pierced the room with a look Emmett had
     never seen before.
    “Mr. G.!” Emmett cried, afraid to advance any farther into the room. “What are you doing?”
    Mr. G.’s chest heaved. “I’m smashing things, Emmett. Or shall I say, I’ve smashed them? I’m going to destroy every painting
     I’ve ever done, Emmett. Every last bit of them. They’re no good. Not one of them is worth the cheap canvas they are painted
     on. And I’ve given it my life. My life, Emmett.” He laughed. “Well, not exactly, because I am still here. Still alive. Not
     too old, not too young. But still alive. Close the door, Emmett. My paltry allowance is hardly enough to pay for the fuel
     to keep this place warm. I can’t warm the outdoors, too.”
    Emmett closed the door. “I’m sorry, Mr. G.” He looked at the paintings. There were four of them, all ruined. They had been
     hanging on the walls. Emmettknew he was too small and too young to know very much about paintings. But he thought that those which Mr. G. had painted
     were beautiful. One was of a horse and wagon going down an old road in the country. A boy and a girl sat on the high seat,
     looking at each other and smiling. Another was of a farm in the wintertime, with a car stuck in the deep snow and a horse
     trying to pull it out. The third one was of a little girl holding a kitten. The fourth was of a bell in a tower, and people
     below going to church. Emmett had never realized that anybody could paint pictures which could look so real. Now they were
     lying all over the floor, ripped apart by the man who had painted them.
    Emmett stared at Mr. G. What had made him tear up such beautiful things? For a while Emmett didn’t know what to say or do.
     He had never seen Mr. G. in such a bad temper.
    “I’m no good, Emmett,” Mr. G. said. “I’m going to quit painting.” His voice was soft and kind again, just the way Emmett had
     always known it. The angry look in his eyes was gone.
    “Oh, you can’t, Mr. G.! You can’t quit painting!”
    Mr. G. smiled and put an arm around Emmett. “I must, my friend. I must stop it right away and do something else. Give me a
     hand cleaning up this mess, will you, Emmett?”
    “Sure, Mr. G.”
    Emmett began picking up.
    “Did you
have
to tear up these beautiful paintings,Mr. G.?” said Emmett. “They weren’t hurting anybody.”
    “I guess I was too disgusted to realize what I was doing, Emmett,” said Mr. G. “It was a foolish thing to do. Very foolish.
     I see that now, and I’m a little sorry. Those paintings
were
rather beautiful, weren’t they, Emmett?”
    “They sure were, Mr. G.”
    Emmett sat on a chair near the table and looked at Mr. G. He had known the little red-haired man for almost a year, ever since
     Mr. G. had moved into Mrs. Maxwell’s basement apartment and had invited Emmett in to eat some of his homemade cookies. He
     had come from New York City and was attending an art school here in Westvale. Before that he had gone to a university and
     had studied art.
    “It’s