The Case of the Toxic Mutants
Page 6
“I’m pretty sure they’re yours, Granddad,” said Danny wearily. He really wanted to go home. It was getting late, and he wanted dinner. He might even go to bed early, which generally required divine intervention. It had been a very long day. Negotiating a truce with a group of clothes-obsessed pack rats really took it out of you.
“And did you bring back my brooch?” demanded Grandfather Turlingsward.
Wendell stepped forward with the brooch. Grandfather Turlingsward snatched it up and eyed it suspiciously.
“Well,” he said again. “Hmm. I suppose that it didn’t take any harm. You’re sure it was pack rats?”
“Completely sure,” said Danny. He was a bit annoyed. He hadn’t expected serious praise, but would it kill his grandfather to say thanks?
“I still think she had something to do with it,” said Grandfather Turlingsward, glaring across the street.
Danny sighed. He’d had enough. The pack rats wouldn’t steal any more dentures—at least, as long as Miss Flicktongue kept making them little outfits—and he was tired.
“Oh, no!” said Christiana. “My slime molds have probably run the maze twice by now, and I wasn’t there to give them a treat!” She took off at a run toward the bus stop. Wendell jogged after her.
As they hurried away, Danny heard an enormous throat clear behind him, and Grandfather Turlingsward said, “Wait up, Danny.”
Danny blinked. He wasn’t sure that he’d ever heard his granddad actually use his name.
“Really?” asked Danny. He didn’t have anything in his hoard half as good—a tenth as good!—as the brooch. “Seriously?”
“A young dragon needs a nice piece for his hoard,” said Grandfather Turlingsward. “Gives you a good start. Don’t go trading it for baseball cards, now.”
Danny, who mostly knew about baseball cards as a historical curiosity, clutched the brooch to his chest.
“Hmmph!” muttered
Grandfather Turlingsward. “You young people today . . . I don’t know. Now get off my lawn!”