The Case of the Piggy Bank Thief by Martha Freeman

Author:Martha Freeman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Holiday House
Published: 2012-12-26T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

FREE at last, Hooligan zeroed in on the hedge where yesterday we’d seen the waddling cat disappear.

Uh-oh.

With a big head start, the cat had been able to outrun Pickles. But Hooligan’s legs are a whole lot longer than Pickles’s, not to mention Hooligan’s jaws are a whole lot bigger. If Hooligan got wind of the fat cat, we would probably be witnessing fat-cat-snack.

Time to mount a feline rescue!

Nate, Zach and Mr. Golley took off, and as soon as I was back on my feet, I followed at full speed. Behind us came Dalton and Tessa, both waving their arms like Hooligan might understand sign language, except he doesn’t, so all that waving just added commotion.

We were closing the gap a few strides from the hedge when Hooligan abruptly changed course.

Did he hear what I heard—something growling from the bushes?

Whatever the reason, Hooligan all of a sudden hung a U-y and circled back in the direction of the canopy.

Trying to cut him off, I made a sharp turn, too. Meanwhile, Mr. Golley went right, and Nate and Zach left. Next thing you know, all us kids and Mr. Golley were running in breathless circles that probably looked like NASCAR—only on foot and more prone to pile up and collision.

I guess Hooligan himself thought it was good entertainment, too, because he sat down panting to spectate, which was when—“Bad dog!”—I finally managed to tackle him.

A second later, Tessa caught up with us. “No, he’s not a bad dog, are you, puppy?” She scratched behind his ears, while I got back on my feet and tried to sort out the tangled leash.

What had happened to the cat? Was it the cat that growled?

Anyway, I guessed it was safe for now.

Meanwhile, Mr. Golley, Nate, Zach and Dalton had all come running from different directions.

Mr. Golley caught his breath and shook his head. “I’m afraid ‘bad dog’ pretty much sums it up,” he said. “Have you seen all the holes your canine dug around here yesterday?”

It was a second before that sank in; then Nate said, “You mean it was Hooligan who was digging for treasure yesterday afternoon?”

Mr. Golley laughed. “For treasure? Not hardly. More like greasy grimy mole guts.”

Tessa said, “Ewwwww!”

And Zach said, “There goes our million-dollar reward.”

I tried to defend my dog. “Hooligan never dug a bunch of holes in the lawn before! How do you know for sure—?”

But before I could finish the question, a dirt clod smacked my shin, then another, then another, and—“Hey, what . . . ?” “Get out of the way!” “Stop!”—we were all jumping back and shielding ourselves, trying to avoid the sudden eruption of splattering dirt, grass and mud caused by Hooligan, world-champion hole digger.

Thinking fast, Dalton pulled a bag of jelly beans from his pants pocket. “Hooligan, look here, buddy—treats!”

Granny’s right that jelly beans are unhealthy, but I was grateful because they’re also effective. Instantly, Hooligan gave up digging to snarf a dozen right out of Dalton’s hand.

Some other junk had dropped out of Dalton’s pocket when the jelly beans did, pink plastic things.

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