It's Up to Charlie Hardin by Dean Ing

Author:Dean Ing [Ing, Dean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: juvenile fiction, Action & Adventure, General, family
Publisher: Baen
Published: 2015-02-03T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12:

THE FUN OF IT

“Eugene! You remember Charles,” Mrs. Carpenter called from her sweeping driveway as Charlie and his mother exited the Hardin Plymouth. Both mothers shed fond gazes on their sons. “Willa, come in for coffee, won’t you?”

The introduction was totally unnecessary for the boys. Gene had already tossed a tennis ball across the manicured lawn in Charlie’s direction, and followed this by making a comical, ferocious face. Within seconds a game of tennis-ball tag exploded toward all corners of the Carpenters’ half-acre, an expanse that advertised family wealth as clearly as if they had installed man-sized dollar signs on the lawn.

Mothers seemed not to notice how many ways a game like tennis-ball tag helped boys to size each other up. Gene had been politely familiar with Charlie for years, but as a suitable companion beyond the strict limits of Sunday-school society, Charlie was still untested. In a game like this, speed, accuracy, and strength counted on the throw; deception and courage were important for the thrown-at. New tennis balls had rubber’s flexibility and would sting only a little. Gene Carpenter preferred last year’s balls, which might as well have been flint, because he placed high value on courage and had a comic book hero’s contempt for pain. Though Gene was a year older and three inches taller than Charlie, they finally negotiated a King’s X on even terms. “Boy, you’re tricky,” the older boy panted with honest admiration, as he sprawled on the back lawn.

“You too,” Charlie replied, and sat down. “Sorry about your cheek.” Though he rubbed an abrasion on his upper arm, Charlie was content. He had seen his best throw catch Gene above the jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways.

“Aaah,” said Gene, dismissing the wound with a grin. He spat on his fingers and rubbed a tiny blood spot from his face. Wink. “I’ll tell Mother I fell in the Algerita.”

If Charlie had wondered how well Gene absorbed punishment, he wondered no longer because he knew the scratches on that cheek must sting like the very dickens. It might be interesting, he thought, to watch Gene Carpenter compete against Jackie Rhett for about ten minutes.

Studying the line of shrubs behind the Carpenter home Charlie said, “They planted Algeritas like those outside the walls of my school. Almost as bad as rosebushes.” In his experience with roses Charlie was an expert by now. The Algerita shrub’s vice was also its main virtue: self-protection. Well known in the region, Algerita was a year-round evergreen, its leaflets stiff as metal and more spiky than holly. In spring it decorated itself with small bright yellow blossoms. Now in early summer the blossoms had become tart pink berries that were popular with songbirds.

“Let’s eat some Algerita berries,” Gene said suddenly.

“You go ahead, they’re too sour for me.” And I’m not gonna prove how much I love sticking my hand in barbwire. Enough’s enough, Charlie added, but only to himself.

Gene had gathered only a handful of berries when they heard Willa Hardin’s special three-note whistle that Charlie had been taught to respect.

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