The Avion My Uncle Flew Read Online Free PDF Page B

you know. Her family has a big house there, like a castle. If I went there my uncle and I would stay in it.”
    â€œBut the house no longer is there. The Germans have burned it.”
    â€œHow do you know?” I asked, puzzled.
    â€œYou are a very stupid boy,” he said in a sudden rage. He jumped off the seat and came toward me—and stopped.
    He whirled around and walked away before Albert arrived. It happened all at once. I was tremendously glad to see Albert. I told him I didn’t want to come to this parc again. “Yess,” he said, amiable as ever, puffing on his pipe. I tried to drive that fact into his head. I’d been pretty much scared for about a second. He said, “Yess,” again, smiling, puffing on the pipe, not paying much attention.
    He didn’t take me back to the hotel as soon as I expected, either.
    He wheeled me around the streets for nearly an hour more, although I asked him to get on back to the hotel. I was dead tired. After that experience with Monsieur Fischfasse, I wanted—I might as well admit it—I wanted to be with my father and my mother. I didn’t feel secure anymore when I was away from them. I kept seeing that white face looming at me.
    Along about two or three in the afternoon we reached the hotel. Albert wheeled me into the elevator and up to my room. He pushed the chair into my room and bowed, as he always did. I shut the door after thanking him, although today I didn’t feel very thankful.
    After laying myself down to rest, I heard voices coming from the next room. I was surprised to hear my father’s. Usually he worked all day. I heard another voice, too, muffled through the wall. I thought it was mon oncle who had come to Paris. I got out of bed, using my crutches.
    I managed to lump it into the sitting room. I suppose I should have knocked first, but I was too eager to see mon oncle. Anyway, I just pushed the door—went on through. When I looked up, the first thing I saw was the man whom I’d met in the parc. He and my father and mother were sitting in the parlor, talking. I exclaimed, “Monsieur Fischfasse—” saying it the way he pronounced it, “Fish-face!”
    I wish you could have seen my father and mother then.
    My mother said, “Why, John!” and jumped up.
    The tall man smiled weakly. He gave me a look as if he hadn’t ever seen me and was embarrassed at having a boy jump out at him and call him “Fish-face.” My father asked, “John, what’s gotten into you? Apologize at once to Monsieur Simonis.”
    I stared at the man. “But he is Monsieur—”
    â€œThat will do!” said my father in a big hard voice. “John, do you hear me?”
    The man said, “It is nothing, monsieur,” to my father, with a weak-as-milk smile on his face. “This is your son?” he went on.
    He knew I was the son. He knew who I was. I never heard of a man acting the way he did. My father said, yes, I was his son, and repeated he didn’t know what was the matter with me, and was embarrassed. My mother rushed to me and whispered, “Johnny Littlehorn, you apologize instantly to Monsieur Simonis.”
    I said, “But I know he’s Monsieur Fish-face—”
    My mother bundled me out of the room, with my father standing, his face red, embarrassed clear through.
    For the first time in years my mother locked the door on me. I stayed there nearly half an hour, until my father entered and sat down. He said, “John, I simply can’t understand how you would do such a thing.”
    I tried to tell him I had met the man before.
    My father shook his head. “No, that won’t do, John. It won’t do at all. It’s bad enough to have you jump in on us and call a guest ‘Fish-face’ before our very eyes, but to have you try to wriggle out of it later and lie—”
    When my mother came in she listened to my explanation. She