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.“But me and the professor? We’re goin’ with you.”“That’s okay.You don’t have to do that.”“If we had to, we probably wouldn’t.”“We want to,” said the professor.“Yeah.We’ll pack a stack of pixie sticks.Anybody gives you any guff, we’ll dust ’em!”Trixie nearly swooned when he said that.“Nails?”“Yeah, Trix?”“You’re my hero.”“Thanks, babe.Come on, Professor.You, me and Christina are headin’ downtown!”Forty-eightAs soon as the young Lucci girl left the shoe repair shop with her book satchel bouncing on her back, Donald McCracken drove his surveillance van to the nearby supermarket.He needed cream.Lots and lots of heavy cream.As he parked his shopping cart in front of the dairy case and started loading the wire basket with paper pints and quarts, he caught sight of a young boy staring at him in amazement.McCracken smiled and tossed in a few tubs of pre-whipped dessert topping, too.And cream cheese.And creamery butter.He kept loading the shopping cart until the wheels creaked under the weight and his teetering mountain of cream cartons looked ready to tumble.The little boy kept staring.“Tonight,” McCracken said with a sinister wink to the terrified child, “we hunt brownies, aye, laddy?”The boy screamed once and ran away.Forty-nineIt was almost dark when they finally reached the Kasselhopf Candy Cane Factory at 44 Warren Street.Christina had made the mistake of hailing a taxi.Well, actually, that should’ve made the trip faster.But the taxi driver in the cab that seemed to be waiting for Christina the second she came out of the shoe shop was French.He did not know his way around town.He was, how you say, confused.In fact, he was so confused, he took them to the airport first.Then to the piers where the cruise ships dock.Then to see the big Christmas tree in midtown where they got stuck in traffic.Nails and Professor Pencilneck nearly suffocated in the backpack as this terribly lost French driver drove them everywhere except where they wanted to go.“I am so sorry,” he kept saying, although it sounded like “sor-ree,” because he was French.Said his name was Pierre.Refused to take any money for the ride.Wanted to know if Christina had eaten any spectacularly good Christmas cookies this holiday season.“A couple.”“Lucky you,” the cabbie had said with a sigh.“Lucky you.”Six hours later, as the sun was setting, they finally entered the factory.“Sorry about that, you guys,” Christina said to her backpack.“Christina?” said Nails from underneath the nylon.“One question.”“Shoot.”“Are you ever gonna eat this stinking banana?”“Oops.Sorry.”“Fret not, Christina,” said the professor.“The scent of smooshed banana on one’s shoes is a small price to pay if, at long last, we ferret out your father’s final Christmas gift!”“Yeah,” said Nails.“What he said.”“Okay, guys.Settle down.I’m heading into the factory, even though the place looks deserted.”Christina walked past a canvas bin filled with solid white candy canes.No red peppermint stripes.She wondered what was up with that.“Hello!”Christina nearly jumped out of her skin.A nervous little man stepped out of the shadows.“Uh, hi,” said Christina.“Say,” said the fidgety man, “aren’t you that brave fireman’s daughter?”He sounded very peculiar.Like he was reciting a script.“Um, yeah.I think my father might’ve come here last year.”“Oh, yes.Indeed he did.I remember it like it was only yesterday, which it wasn’t, because it was last year.” The man dabbed at his bald spot with his necktie.“The brave fireman came here wondering if I had a certain toy.”“What? This is a candy-cane factory.Why would my father come here if he was looking for a toy?”“My question exactly.So, I sent him to King Tony’s Toy Castle.Do you know where that is?”“Yeah.Across from the big tree in midtown.”“I wrote down the address,” said the little man, holding out a slip of green paper shaped like a Christmas tree.Yep.The weirdest December 23 of her life just kept on getting weirder and weirder.FiftyThe old cobbler stood cowering behind the counter as Donald McCracken closed up another steel trap’s door.“Poor little creatures,” he sniggered.“Can’t resist the heavenly scent of heavy cream.”“Are you really from the FBBI?” Giuseppe asked, his voice trembling.“That’s right, Mr.Lucci.The Federal Bureau of Brownie Investigators.Now then, where are the wee ones known as Nails and Professor Pencilneck?”The old man batted his eyes.“Who?”“Little shoemaker what wears a carpenter’s apron? Stick-legged dandy in fancy wedding duds?”Now the old man threw up his hands and pretended like he didn’t know what McCracken was talking about.“Fine,” said McCracken.“I know you’re lying, old man, but I’m in a bit of a time crunch.Some of the others will have to work overtime and finish the work those two used to do.But, mark my word, old man, I’ll be back to reclaim my property, right after Christmas.Why, we’ll tear this shabby little shop to shreds searchin’ for those rude and selfish fugitives!”“I’ll call the police!” the old man sputtered.“No, you won’t.Thirty-six undocumented brownie workers slaving away in your basement sweatshop?” said McCracken, tisk-tisk-tisking his tongue.“If they don’t toss you into the loony bin first, they’ll lock you up for at least thirty-six years!” He clamped the final lock shut.The string of jingle bells over the front door jangled.Delores Dingler barged into the store.“Hello, Delores,” said Giuseppe nervously while McCracken stacked his last four cages on a handcart so he could haul them out to the van at the curb.“Giuseppe,” hissed his neighbor.“May I help you? Do you need shoelaces?”“No, Giuseppe,” she laughed triumphantly.“I need my brownies back! Or Christmas will be ruined!”Fifty-one“Why do I have a feeling someone is sending us on a wild goose chase?” Christina said over her shoulder to her backpack [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.“But me and the professor? We’re goin’ with you.”“That’s okay.You don’t have to do that.”“If we had to, we probably wouldn’t.”“We want to,” said the professor.“Yeah.We’ll pack a stack of pixie sticks.Anybody gives you any guff, we’ll dust ’em!”Trixie nearly swooned when he said that.“Nails?”“Yeah, Trix?”“You’re my hero.”“Thanks, babe.Come on, Professor.You, me and Christina are headin’ downtown!”Forty-eightAs soon as the young Lucci girl left the shoe repair shop with her book satchel bouncing on her back, Donald McCracken drove his surveillance van to the nearby supermarket.He needed cream.Lots and lots of heavy cream.As he parked his shopping cart in front of the dairy case and started loading the wire basket with paper pints and quarts, he caught sight of a young boy staring at him in amazement.McCracken smiled and tossed in a few tubs of pre-whipped dessert topping, too.And cream cheese.And creamery butter.He kept loading the shopping cart until the wheels creaked under the weight and his teetering mountain of cream cartons looked ready to tumble.The little boy kept staring.“Tonight,” McCracken said with a sinister wink to the terrified child, “we hunt brownies, aye, laddy?”The boy screamed once and ran away.Forty-nineIt was almost dark when they finally reached the Kasselhopf Candy Cane Factory at 44 Warren Street.Christina had made the mistake of hailing a taxi.Well, actually, that should’ve made the trip faster.But the taxi driver in the cab that seemed to be waiting for Christina the second she came out of the shoe shop was French.He did not know his way around town.He was, how you say, confused.In fact, he was so confused, he took them to the airport first.Then to the piers where the cruise ships dock.Then to see the big Christmas tree in midtown where they got stuck in traffic.Nails and Professor Pencilneck nearly suffocated in the backpack as this terribly lost French driver drove them everywhere except where they wanted to go.“I am so sorry,” he kept saying, although it sounded like “sor-ree,” because he was French.Said his name was Pierre.Refused to take any money for the ride.Wanted to know if Christina had eaten any spectacularly good Christmas cookies this holiday season.“A couple.”“Lucky you,” the cabbie had said with a sigh.“Lucky you.”Six hours later, as the sun was setting, they finally entered the factory.“Sorry about that, you guys,” Christina said to her backpack.“Christina?” said Nails from underneath the nylon.“One question.”“Shoot.”“Are you ever gonna eat this stinking banana?”“Oops.Sorry.”“Fret not, Christina,” said the professor.“The scent of smooshed banana on one’s shoes is a small price to pay if, at long last, we ferret out your father’s final Christmas gift!”“Yeah,” said Nails.“What he said.”“Okay, guys.Settle down.I’m heading into the factory, even though the place looks deserted.”Christina walked past a canvas bin filled with solid white candy canes.No red peppermint stripes.She wondered what was up with that.“Hello!”Christina nearly jumped out of her skin.A nervous little man stepped out of the shadows.“Uh, hi,” said Christina.“Say,” said the fidgety man, “aren’t you that brave fireman’s daughter?”He sounded very peculiar.Like he was reciting a script.“Um, yeah.I think my father might’ve come here last year.”“Oh, yes.Indeed he did.I remember it like it was only yesterday, which it wasn’t, because it was last year.” The man dabbed at his bald spot with his necktie.“The brave fireman came here wondering if I had a certain toy.”“What? This is a candy-cane factory.Why would my father come here if he was looking for a toy?”“My question exactly.So, I sent him to King Tony’s Toy Castle.Do you know where that is?”“Yeah.Across from the big tree in midtown.”“I wrote down the address,” said the little man, holding out a slip of green paper shaped like a Christmas tree.Yep.The weirdest December 23 of her life just kept on getting weirder and weirder.FiftyThe old cobbler stood cowering behind the counter as Donald McCracken closed up another steel trap’s door.“Poor little creatures,” he sniggered.“Can’t resist the heavenly scent of heavy cream.”“Are you really from the FBBI?” Giuseppe asked, his voice trembling.“That’s right, Mr.Lucci.The Federal Bureau of Brownie Investigators.Now then, where are the wee ones known as Nails and Professor Pencilneck?”The old man batted his eyes.“Who?”“Little shoemaker what wears a carpenter’s apron? Stick-legged dandy in fancy wedding duds?”Now the old man threw up his hands and pretended like he didn’t know what McCracken was talking about.“Fine,” said McCracken.“I know you’re lying, old man, but I’m in a bit of a time crunch.Some of the others will have to work overtime and finish the work those two used to do.But, mark my word, old man, I’ll be back to reclaim my property, right after Christmas.Why, we’ll tear this shabby little shop to shreds searchin’ for those rude and selfish fugitives!”“I’ll call the police!” the old man sputtered.“No, you won’t.Thirty-six undocumented brownie workers slaving away in your basement sweatshop?” said McCracken, tisk-tisk-tisking his tongue.“If they don’t toss you into the loony bin first, they’ll lock you up for at least thirty-six years!” He clamped the final lock shut.The string of jingle bells over the front door jangled.Delores Dingler barged into the store.“Hello, Delores,” said Giuseppe nervously while McCracken stacked his last four cages on a handcart so he could haul them out to the van at the curb.“Giuseppe,” hissed his neighbor.“May I help you? Do you need shoelaces?”“No, Giuseppe,” she laughed triumphantly.“I need my brownies back! Or Christmas will be ruined!”Fifty-one“Why do I have a feeling someone is sending us on a wild goose chase?” Christina said over her shoulder to her backpack [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]