The Secret of Ferrell Savage Read Online Free PDF Page B

about a foot from the floor. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
    â€œIs he a friend of Mary’s?” Mom asked.
    â€œShe said she met him at the sled race.” I took a swig of juice.
    Mom raised her eyebrows. “And?”
    â€œAnd what?” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “They talked about aerodynamics.”
    â€œAha.” Mom winked at Dad. “I see what’s going on here.” She chuckled and went back to the kitchen sink, where she always ate her toast.
    â€œYou think maybe the boy is jealous?” Dad asked me.
    â€œJealous of what? The Pollypry?”
    A plate crashed into the sink.
    â€œWhat?” Mom whirled around and looked at Dad. “Did he say ‘Polly Pry’?”
    Dad’s mouth dropped open.
    I pulled out the feather from my backpack, and Mom put her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. From behind her hand she squeaked out, “How did that thing make its way back into my house?”
    â€œIt’s not dirty, Mom. If it had any diseases, I would have gotten one by now. Look how white it is—well, except for down here where it’s all black—but pollypries must be very clean birds.”
    Dad leaned over, put his hand on my arm, and spoke as if he were forcing himself to be calm. “Polly Pry is the name of a person, not a bird.”
    â€œShe had feathers?” I asked.
    â€œWhat you’re holding in your hand, actually, is a quill pen she used in the late 1800s.”
    I stared at the feather, wondering what was soscary about it. Then I looked at my dad, waiting for more of an explanation.
    He pointed to the dirty end and said, “Ink. See? There used to be a metal nib.”
    Mom, still holding her hand to her mouth, lowered herself into a chair at the end of the table.
    â€œWhy is it so evil, Mom? The bird, er, I mean, the pen, er, no, the person . . . Polly Pry saved your uncle’s life, right?”
    â€œExactly. My great-great-uncle Alferd was a beast.”
    Dad stood up, walked around the table, and put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay, Katherine. It’s history. Everyone’s forgotten about it, and it has nothing to do with who you and Ferrell are now,” Dad reassured her.
    But Mom brushed away his arms and stood up. “I need more coffee,” she said. But instead of pouring herself another cup, she got Buddy’s leash, hooked it to his collar, and scooped him into her arms. “Come on, sweet boy.” She kissed the top of his head and walked out the door.
    Dad and I kept our eyes on the door for a long time after it slammed shut, and as soon as I was sure she was not coming right back, I turned to Dad andsaid, “So, how did Polly Pry save my great-great-great-uncle’s life?”
    Dad took a long sip of his coffee and then resituated himself in his chair. “Where do I begin . . . ,” he said, and took a slow, deep breath. I happen to know librarians live to answer questions like this.
    â€œPolly Pry . . . She was a smart, sassy woman. She was known as a sob sister, which is what they used to call women journalists who wrote stories for the paper about events that were full of gossip, and her stories were sometimes”—Dad patted his heart—“touching.”
    â€œCut to the chase, Dad. I’m going to be late for school,” I urged.
    â€œWell, your great-great-great-uncle Alferd was in prison serving a life sentence when Polly Pry got wind of the story. She was the only one who believed the man was innocent, and she wanted to see him freed. So she wrote articles about him for the Denver Post . Her words were so persuasive that soon a lot of folks became interested, including the governor at that time. . . . Oh, what was his name . . .?” Dad tapped his head.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter, just keep going!”
    â€œLet’s see, it was