Soup by Robert Newton Peck

Author:Robert Newton Peck [Peck, Robert Newton]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Social Issues, Humorous Stories, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Cooking, Fiction, Courses & Dishes, Soups & Stews, Boys & Men, General, Friendship
ISBN: 9780679892618
Google: G_xVd1S8XUAC
Amazon: 0679892613
Publisher: Yearling
Published: 1974-01-02T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

A Barrel of Chicken

“YOU’RE AFRAID,” said Soup.

“No, I’m not.”

“Then what are you just standing there for?”

“Well, it looks like kind of a steep hill. Maybe we should try it on the level.”

“I knew you’d be scared.”

“I ain’t scared.”

“Then why don’t you get inside the barrel?”

“Here’s why,” I said, showing Soup a bent nail inside the old apple barrel.

“It’s just an old nail.”

“Yeah, but if it rips my sweater, my mother won’t like it.”

My mother already took notice that I look worse when I come home from school than when I start out. I never see a difference, but she always does.

“You’re afraid.”

“I’m not afraid of rolling down Dugan’s Hill in a barrel. Just afraid of tearing a rip to the sweater.”

“What do you care?” said Soup. “After all, it’s my sweater.”

“Used to be,” I said. “Your mother gave it to my mother for some of us to wear. Reckon it’s my sweater now, since you outgrowed it.”

“That’s because,” said Soup as he gave me a punch on my arm for emphasis, “I’m bigger ’n you. I can’t even get into that old sweater.”

“And I can’t get into that old barrel.”

Soup looked around for a rock and found one. Rolling the barrel so the nail was against the ground, he pounded it flat against the raw, splintery wood.

“There,” said Soup. “I fixed the nail.”

With a doubtful eye, I got down on my hands and knees to inspect the barrel’s newly improved interior. I noticed then that some of the staves were rotten and loose.

“Get in,” said Soup.

I started to back into the barrel, feet first, taking one last look down the full length of Dugan’s Hill. I backed in only an inch or two, until I felt Soup’s restraining hand tug on my belt.

“Head first,” said Soup, “not feet first.”

“How come?” I said, happily exiting on my hands and knees.

“Because,” said Soup.

I knew better than to ask Soup “because what?” As far as Soup was concerned, his one-word explanation—because—was enough for me. It would be a waste of good time to offer further documentation for his decision that proper barrel-entering was performed head first. Argument would now be useless. Soup never made a moot point. And so with a sigh of resignation, Soup’s sweater and I occupied the barrel in the approved manner.

The barrel, prior to my entry—or rather re-entry—had been light inside. Now that I filled it, it seemed dark. To make matters worse, the inside bottom of the old apple barrel that I now faced still carried a few overripe remains of its recently emptied cargo.

“You see?” said Soup, “now when you roll inside the barrel, nothing can hit your face. There’s a reason for everything.”

I was about to add, “Nothing can hit my face except rotten apples.” But I didn’t. It would be folly to talk back to Luther Wesley Vinson when your arse end is pointed shoe-level in his direction and within his range, especially in such an undefended position. You had to know in this world when to keep your mouth shut and your behind inconspicuous.

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