Free The Pigman's Legacy (The Sequel to The Pigman) by Paul Zindel Page A

open. But we could feel this chilling breeze, and the dust moved around us enough to give us a minor choking fit.
    “John, I feel as if there is someone else in the room with us now,” Lorraine whispered, turning rapidly and flashing her light all about.
    I felt the hair begin to bristle on the back of my neck, and I was about to close the trunk when I noticed a white envelope strapped against the lid. I lifted it up, opened it, and took out one of those folders that look like they're going to hold a high-school prom picture. Lorraine practically ripped it out of my hand, and opened it to reveal a very old picture of a man with a beard. The man was in a uniform and he was saluting. There was a big grin on his face. A grin that was at least thirty or forty years younger than the one on the man we knew, who was sitting downstairs in a swivel chair. Engraved in gold letters beneath the photograph was “Colonel Parker Glenville,” and we knew then that indeed the Colonel was not dead. Our Gus was the Colonel .

eight
     
    I couldn't stop John from rummaging through that trunk for another five minutes. He's one of the nosiest boys I've ever seen, and I was on the verge of having a huge anxiety attack. I had to go to the front window and breathe a few extra millimeters of fresh air that leaked in around the sills. The louvers on one of the outside screens were turned in a way so I could glimpse the street below. I was expecting to see a police car, but instead there was nothing but a scrawny German shepherd moping down the sidewalk. I bent my head to see if anybody was across the street, and managed to glimpse the figure of a real bum. This destitute old man seemed to have nothing to his name but a pile of blankets that he was clutching, and he was drinking a bottle of wine as he went along his way. He looked so solemn and awful, I couldn't help wondering if he was one of those ordinary bums or one of those extremely intelligent people who had become so disillusioned by society that he just couldn't handle his life anymore.
    When John was good and ready, he engineered our exit. I never felt more mortified than when he made me help him drag the trunk down the outside steps while people were walking back and forth on the street. I don't know what be thought they could think, but I knew what they thought—seeing a couple of kids yanking this big leatherette trunk out of a boarded-up, dilapidated town house. When we finally got the thing all the way to the rear of the Studebaker we couldn't even open the car trunk!
    “Kick it,” Gus yelled, as he came down the steps to the sidewalk, still under his own power.
    We tried a few times until John kicked just the right spot and the car trunk flew open. We swung the trunk inside, closed everything up, and John ran around to open the car door for me. I went to slide in but stopped short. The German shepherd I had seen from the upstairs window was now lying on the backseat of the old convertible. He was literally sprawled across the cushions, his head buried in his front paws. He had obviously jumped in and made himself entirely at home. He had two of the saddest eyes in the world and looked like he was suffering from a persecution complex. I should have known there was a reason he had picked this particular car.
    “ Get out ,” John yelled at the dog. The dog wouldn't budge. By now the old man was at our side, and I figured when he saw the dog he'd probably pick up a stick and smack him for trespassing. Instead Gus' eyes began to twinkle. And the dog's eyes brightened too. Gus immediately grabbed a piece of fudge out of his pocket and offered it to the dog, saying, “You're a good boy. You're a good boy.” The dog accepted the offering and began chewing it as though he was a connoisseur of sweets.
    “Come on now, get out ,” John ordered the dog.
    “He's okay,” Gus said.
    “What do you mean, he's okay?” John wanted to know. “Get out! Get out!” he yelled at the dog