Break for the Basket (3 page)

Friday evening, when Mr. Torrance came home from work, he had the suit with him. Penguins was printed in white letters across
the front of the jersey, and the number 5 on the back. He had also bought a little brown bag in which Emmett could carry the
uniform.

Emmett arose early Saturday morning. The thought of playing basketball had been on his mind part of the night. He had even
dreamed about it. He dressed and went into the kitchen. His mother and father were having toast, coffee, and eggs for breakfast.

“Well, look at the early bird,” said Mom. “You don’t have to give me two guesses why you’re up so early.”

Emmett smiled. He had cereal and milk, then sat around waiting for the minutes to pass. It was only eight o’clock. Boy, how
slowly time dragged.

“I’m going over to see Mr. G. a minute,” he said finally. “Is that all right?”

His Mom shrugged. “He may still be asleep.”

“Not him,” said Mr. Torrance. “He’s up at five-thirty every morning. He is a strange fellow if there ever was one.”

Emmett could not understand why his Dad, or anybody else, talked that way about Mr. G. He couldn’t see what there was peculiar
about Mr. G. at all. Except that Mr. G. had very thick red hair which he seldom had cut, and he painted pictures. It wasn’t
easy to paint pictures. Mom and Dad couldn’t do it.

“I’ll just knock easy,” Emmett said.

He put on his coat, hat, and mittens. He carried the little brown bag with his uniform inside of it to Mr. G.’s apartment
and knocked lightly on Mr. G.’s door. He knocked again, but there was no answer.

He was ready to believe that Mr. G. was asleep when the front door opened and Mrs. Maxwell stuck her head around the corner
of the house.

“If you’re looking for Mr. G., he isn’t here,” she said abruptly. “Matter of fact, he hasn’t been home in three days. I don’t
know where he is.”

She sounded angry and disgusted. She turned and went back into the house.

Mr. G. not home for three days? Where had he gone? Had he left the city without saying good-bye? Was he that discouraged about
his failure as a painter?

Emmett’s heart ached. Mr. G. was a real friend. Emmett could not believe that Mr. G. would have left the city without at least
saying good-bye to him.

Emmett started walking toward the Northside Community Hall. Presently he reached a corner. He looked to his right. Two blocks
away a tall, orange-brick structure with pillars in front of it caught his eye. It was the Fenway Museum of Art, in which
paintings of all descriptions hung on the walls. Many a time he would go there with Mr. G. Together they would look at the
paintings. Sometimes they would spend hours there.

“It’s like reading a book,” Mr. G. had once explained. “I enjoy looking at paintings as much as I enjoy painting. It’s a joy
that fills the heart like soft rain in the summertime, or like reading the funnies on an early Sunday morning.”

Emmett walked rapidly to the building. He walked up the long steps and then pulled open the tall, heavy door. The place was
silent. He walked quietly across the carpeted floor. The eyes of the people in the paintings watched him as if they were alive.

He walked into another vast room filled with paintings of every size and of everything you could think of paintings of a riverboat,
a seashore, snowcapped mountains, people, and animals. Emmett began to feel that he wasn’t alone any more.

A low, deep voice startled him. “Good morning, young fellow. Enjoying yourself?”

Emmett whirled. A gray-haired man in shirtsleeves was standing there with a broom and a dustpan.

“I’m looking for Mr. G.,” said Emmett.

The man’s brows arched. “Who?”

“Mr. G.,” Emmett repeated. “A friend of mine. He’s a painter. He’s a little man, and he’s got red hair. I’m looking for him.”

The lines in the man’s face deepened as he smiled. “Red hair? Why, that must be the fellow who was standing at the door when
I opened up. Came in, browsed around awhile, then left.”

“He was here?” Emmett’s eyes widened. “When did he leave?”

“Just a few moments ago. Said he was going down to the lake to paint a picture.”

Almost before saying thank you, Emmett turned and dashed out of the building. He raced down the steps and ran all the way
to Crandall Lake, which wasn’t too far. He stopped on its shore. It was a narrow lake and frozen all the way across. Emmett
looked around the shore, at the bare trees and the empty picnic tables and benches. There was no sign of Mr. G.

A train whistle hooted like a sad wail in the distance. Emmett looked across the lake. A figure caught his eyes a familiar
figure — standing in the middle of the railroad tracks with a briefcase in his hand. He was looking the other way, at the
buildings of the city stretching into the sky like mammoth rocks growing out of the earth, at the columns of smoke rising
from a thousand chimneys, at the bright specks of lights that were windows touched by the morning sun.

So that was what Mr. G. had come to paint. Not the lake, but the city on the other side of the tracks.

“Mr. G.!” Emmett shouted. “Mr. G.!”

He started to run across the ice, the uniform bag still in his hand. He wanted to talk to Mr. G., ask him where he’d been
these last three days. Maybe if Mr. G. didn’t return to his apartment soon, Mrs. Maxwell might order him to leave. Could he
owe her rent? Was that why she was so angry?

Emmett got halfway across the lake when his foot sank down and
splush!
— he plunged through the ice!

His uniform bag skidded away. The next moment he was in the water up to his chest. Desperately he hung onto the jagged edges
of the ice, while the cold water gnawed at his legs.

“Mr. G.!” he screamed. “Mr. G.!”

T
HE TRAIN WHISTLED
the same time that Emmett yelled. Mr. G. could not possibly have heard him.

“Mr. G.!” Emmett shouted again. “Mr. G.! Help!”

He got colder. Another piece of ice broke off the edge. Emmett pushed his arms out full length over the solid part and began
to tread water to keep himself up.

Emmett screamed again. If Mr. G. didn’t hear him now —

Mr. G. turned. Emmett lifted a hand and waved. “Mr. G.! Help! It’s me! Emmett!”

The next instant Mr. G. jumped over the rail and down the high, cindered bank. He slid on his back. Then he was on his feet
and running on the ice as fast as he could. And that wasn’t fast, because he was slipping so much.

“Hang on, Emmett!” he said. “Hang on! I’ll be right there!”

Emmett’s arms were getting tired. But he would hold on until Mr. G. reached him. He just had to. He prayed that Mr. G. wouldn’t
plunge through the ice, too.

At last Mr. G. was there. “Jumping jack rabbits!” he said. “What a fine time to go swimming!” He didn’t get too close. He
took off his coat, lay down on his stomach, and tossed a corner of his coat to Emmett.

“Grab hold, Emmett!” he said. “Grab hold and hang on tight!”

Emmett grabbed hold of the coat with one hand. Then he put both hands around it. Slowly Mr. G. crawled back on the ice, pulling
the coat with Emmett hanging on like a lobster. Seconds later Emmett was out of the water, dripping wet and cold.

“Th — thanks, Mr. G.!”

“Never mind that,” said Mr. G. quickly. “We have to get you home where it’s warm, or you’ll catch pneumonia!”

“Nobody’s home now. Could we go to your place?” Emmett was shivering.

“Sure, Emmett. Let me get your bag and we will be on our way.”

Then Mr. G. put his coat over Emmett’s shoulders and helped him to shore. A dozen people were on the frozen bank, watching
anxiously.

“Quit staring like a pack of idiots!” shouted Mr. G. “If anyone wants to do a favor show us your car and take us home! This
boy needs care immediately!”

“This way,” a man said.

Emmett and Mr. G. entered the man’s car, a four-door sedan. Mr. G. barked his address and the car took for.

“You should have had more sense than to run on that ice,” said Mr. G. “Couldn’t you see those places where it looked thin?”

Emmett shook his head. “N — no,” he said.

When the car stopped, Mr. G. stepped out, then helped Emmett out. “Thank you very much,” Mr. G. said to the driver. “I’ll
take care of him from here.”

Mr. G. led Emmett into his apartment. He opened the heat valves in the radiators wide, then helped Emmett take off all of
his clothes.

“A hot bath for you, and then into bed,” said Mr. G.

The hot bath felt good. It took the cold out of Emmett, made him feel fresh and warm again. Mr. G. loaned Emmett his pajamas.
They were just a little bit big for him.

“Pays for a grownup to be a shorty sometimes,” laughed Mr. G. “Now, crawl into bed. I’ll make you a cup of hot chocolate,
then go about drying your duds.”

Mr. G. made the hot chocolate and gave it to Emmett. Then he rinsed out Emmett’s clothes in the sink as much as he could.

“I’m going to ask Mrs. Maxwell to put these in her automatic dryer,” he said at the door. “They’ll be dry before you can say
Peter Piper picked a peck of potatoes.”

Emmett wondered if Mrs. Maxwell would let Mr. G. use her automatic dryer. He drank the hot chocolate while he waited. It warmed
him thoroughly. A few moments later there was a drone upstairs and Emmett
knew that the dryer was at work drying his clothes. And that Mrs. Maxwell wasn’t so mad at Mr. G. after all.

Then a horrible thought struck him. The basketball game against the Eskimos!

He couldn’t stay here in bed! He had to get to that game! The Penguins would never give him another chance if he failed to
show up now!

M
R
. G.
RETURNED
with Emmett’s clothes. A broad smile formed half-moons around his mouth.

“Well, here you are. Clean and dry.” His black brows arched as he leaned forward and whispered, “I told her you slipped on
the ice, but I didn’t tell her
where.”

Emmett grinned. He threw back the covers and started to get out of bed.

“Hold it,” cautioned Mr. G. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“The Penguins are playing basketball! I’m late already!” cried Emmett.

“Do you feel up to it? Are your chills all gone?”

“I feel fine! Honest, Mr. G.!”

“Okay. Get into your clothes. But if you start sneezing—”

“I won’t, Mr. G. I know I won’t.”

Emmett yanked on his clothes, then looked up at Mr. G. “Mr. G., thank you for pulling me out of the lake. I guess I shouldn’t
have run out there.”

Mr. G. chuckled dryly. “That’s all right. I had just about decided not to make a painting of the city anyway. I was ready
to come home when I heard you.”

Emmett smiled. What a hectic morning this had been so far!

“See you, Mr. G.!” he said. He picked up his uniform bag and ran out of the door.

All sorts of crazy thoughts spilled through his mind as he ran all the way to the Northside Community Hall. What time was
it? Why hadn’t he thought about looking at the clock in Mr. G.’s apartment? Would the Penguins keep him on the team even though
he was late? Maybe the game was already over! The horrifying thought made him run faster.

He soon reached the hall. Screams from the basketball court told him that the game was still on. He went inside the gym, recognized
the Penguins on the court. He glanced at the electric scoreboard.

PENGUINS
29

ESKIMOS
27

Then he saw the green light just above the score. It was the last quarter!

Emmett saw Mr. Long, the coach, sitting near the table where the scorekeeper sat. Johnny Clark was sitting beside him. Emmett
went to him. He trembled with nervousness, wondering if Mr. Long would even recognize him.

“Hey, it’s Emmett Torrance!” Johnny shouted. “Where have you been?”

“I fell on the ice and got my clothes all wet,” replied Emmett. He looked questioningly at Mr. Long.

“The fourth quarter has just started, Emmett,” said the coach. “Hurry into your uniform.”