"What's the matter with these people who want to move here?" said James when I'd finished. "Are they escaped criminals or something?"
"Probably moral lepers," said Lydia.
"What's a moral leper?" said Deborah.
I hurried on before anyone could tell her because once she learns a new word she uses it without mercy.
"No," I said. "I don't think it's anything like that. I think it's something else." Because I was beginning to think I knew what it might be.
"You mean it's just snobbishness, more?" said Laura.
"Sort of," I said.
"But that's terrible," said Gordy.
"Yes," I said, "it is. That's why I think we all ought to go over to Mr. Chenoweth's in a body right now and sign that paper; That's if children can."
"Why bother with papers?" said Lydia. "What's the magic for if not for a time like this?"
"It could be the big good turn the well's been working up to," agreed Laura.
"If it is, Kip ought to be the one in charge," said James. "Because he found out about it, and he hasn't had an adventure of his own yet." Which was generous of him, because neither had he.
"I thought of that," I admitted, "but I don't know. Mr. Chenoweth seems to have it pretty well in hand already. And I don't know whether church and magic go together."
Laura's face fell. "I never thought of that," she said. "They don't seem to have much in common."
There was a pause.
"What about the Witch of Endor?" Deborah spoke up suddenly. "We had her in Sunday School."
"That's right," said James. "Solomon went to see her, and he was holy."
"Wise, too," said Gordy. "If he could use magic, why can't we?"
"Out of the mouths of babes again," said Lydia, patting Deborah on the head.
"Well, maybe," I said. "But before we go stirring up the well, I think we ought to clear it with Mr. Chenoweth."
So we started for the rectory, walking because it isn't far and it was a fine sunny day.
When we got there, Mr. and Mrs. Chenoweth were already finishing dinner, though it wasn't one o'clock yet. Still, I imagine preaching sermons must be famishing work.
They seemed surprised to see us, but cordial. Mrs. Chenoweth offered us some store butterscotch pudding, which we civilly refused.
"We won't keep you a minute," I said. "We just want to sign that paper you talked about in church, if children are allowed to."
Mr. Chenoweth's face took on an odd expression. But he seemed to be pleased. "It so happens," he said, "that the family I have in mind includes three children. I think it would be very appropriate if the children in this neighborhood joined in welcoming them. In fact, you have given me an idea. I believe I will begin a second page, especially for children's signatures."
And he did, and we all signed it with a will.
"If you have any friends who would like to add their names to yours," Mr. Chenoweth said, "just send them to me."
I hesitated. "We do have some friends we were thinking of," I told him, "but they're not children, mostly." And I went on then about the magic and the Well-Wishers' Club and the good turns we had done so far.
"The well hasn't failed yet," I said, "and we wanted to use it now but we weren't sure. Would magic mix with church?"
"Or would it be sacrilege or something?" said Laura.
"Or just plain butting in?" said James.
Mr. Chenoweth was silent. But he was smiling to himself. Then he cleared his throat. "Ahem. I'm afraid I have not had a great deal of experience with magic. At least not the kind that lives in wells. But from what you tell me of the particular magic power you wield, I should say that it would 'mix with church,' as you put it, quite satisfactorily. I could even wish at times that more of my congregation were similarly gifted." He sighed. Then he smiled again. "In fact, I believe I may find a word of advice for you here. One so often can." And he took down a large Bible from a shelf and leafed through the pages. "Ah yes. Here we have it. Proverbs five: sixteen. 'Let thy fountains be dispersed abroad.'"
"And if that doesn't give us an absolutely free hand," said Lydia a minute later as we were walking home, "I'd like to know what would. We can disperse the well's magic anywhere we want to."
"Our carte is blanche," agreed James.
A minute later we arrived at the red house and all stood around the well in a solemn circle, while I spoke the words.
"Help us help that family to move in, please," I said. "And without any fuss or trouble."
And then we went inside, because time was passing and we were beginning to regret the butterscotch pudding. While we were raiding the red house's icebox, we heard familiar voices at the other end of the hall; so James and Laura led the way and we went into the living room, taking the cold chops and other things we'd found with us.
It turned out that my mother and father had stopped by and were deep in discussion with James and Laura's parents. What they were discussing I leave you to guess. When my mother saw us, she said, "Oh dear, I hate the children to hear all this."
"I think it's a good thing if they do, Margaret," said James's father. "This isn't a perfect world, and they might as well know it now."
"I think we know about it already," said James, "if the trouble's what I think it is."
"I might have known," said my mother philosophically.
"The thing that worries me," said James's father, picking up where he'd left off when we came in, "isn't getting those people moved into that house. I know we can get enough names on our side to override that petition. But there's bound to be some kind of demonstration when it happens. And how will that make the people feel about living here?"
"I know," said James's mother. "If I were they, I wouldn't want any part of this town. When I hear things like this, I wonder why I stay!"
"One reason to stay is to fix it so things like this don't happen," said my father. "Then there'll be no reason to leave. It's a problem, though, how to do it the right way."
"No it isn't," piped up Deborah suddenly. "It's all fixed. We told the well."
"Not that well again?" said my mother. And she rolled her eyes at the others. "Remember last summer?"
For our parents, unlike most parents in books, know about the magic. Or at least they know something. Though not all.
"As I think back to it," said my father, "it seems to me last summer the well did a pretty good job. When you think of the new school. And other things. On the other hand, though..." He broke off, looking thoughtful.
"I agree with you," said James's father.
And now all four of our parents were looking at us in that way they so often look, as though they weren't sure what we'd do next, or what they would do about it when we did.
James's father was the first to speak. "Look, kids," he said. "I know your hearts are in the right place and you want to help, but this is a pretty ticklish situation. Even with that magic you think you have, you could still go wrong. Feelings could get hurt. So if I were you, I'd stay out of it. Or if you absolutely can't" (and here his face relaxed in a grin, because he is an understanding man), "I'd be careful. Don't do anything rash, or drastic. Don't do anything at all without checking with one of us first."
"We won't," I promised. I seemed to be spokesman.
"And now back to the kitchen with those chops," said James's mother. "Honestly, Margaret, you'll think we never have a decent meal around here!"
"From the number of times Kip begs to stay to dinner here," replied my mother, "I gather you must eat a lot better than we do."
We left them vying in polite laughter like a couple of rival hostesses, and went back to the kitchen and put our dishes in the dishwasher and our chop bones in the garbage can. And then we went outside.
"You know, there's something in what they say," James said in a troubled voice. "I don't see how the magic's going to manage it without big scenes and people quarreling."
"Leave it to the well," said Laura. "It'll seek its own level."
>
"And while we're waiting," I said, "at least we can tell people about it. Our friends and all the Well-Wishers. So they'll be prepared for whatever happens."
This didn't seem to be rash or drastic enough to have to consult a parent about it; so we started out, taking a big sheet of blank paper with us that could be added to Mr. Chenoweth's list of names later.
We dropped in first on Lydia's grandmother. She is always a firebrand in any cause, provided she can be fighting against something. In some ways Lydia is very like her.
"I'm with you," she said, writing her signature at the top of the paper in big sprawling letters. "We'll lick the Philistines or bust." That is what she always calls anybody she doesn't agree with. I do not know why. Except that I seem to remember about the Philistines that they had the jawbones of an ass, and that is certainly true of the people who were spreading ugly talk in this case.
After that we stopped at Hopeful Hill and talked to Doctor Emma Lovely. Or rather Gordy did most of the talking because he knows her best.
"Well, well, Diogenes," she said to him when she'd heard the story. "Still looking for an honest man in a naughty world? And lo, Abou Ben Lovely's name led all the rest! Well, at least it comes second."
And she signed her name under Lydia's grandmother's, with a string of letters after it that probably meant something important and medical. "Peculiar psychology, people who want to keep other people out of things," she added. "Comes from a thwarted childhood, of course. Still, that's no excuse."
We went past Gordy's house next, but no one suggested stopping. Everyone was privately afraid it might be embarrassing for Gordy. Mrs. Witherspoon is not a person you can depend on to be on the right side, in a thing like this. So we marched straight by the driveway and no one said a word. No one looked at Gordy, either. But he was in front of me, and I couldn't help seeing the back of his neck get red.
But we talked to a lot of other people who were highly cooperative. The woman who had given us the Lady Baltimore cake not only signed the paper, but offered to bake another Lady Baltimore cake for. the new arrivals as soon as they were safely moved in.
As for Miss Wilson, when we told her, her face got crosser than I've ever seen it in school. "Why must there be hate and prejudice in the world," she said, "when you think what a little love can do?" And her look softened as she gazed out of the window at Sylvia, playing in the yard.
After that we visited some of the friends we had made the summer before. Miss Isabella King, the little old lady who owns the abandoned silver mine, was gentle but peppery, as always. "This could never have happened in the old days," she said. "In my time, neighbors were neighborly."
Mr. Hiram Bundy, the town banker, was taking tea with her in her parlor, as he so often is. He hemmed and hawed when we asked him to sign the paper, but Miss Isabella gave him a firm look and he did it.
From Miss King's we went up the river to where the movie-starish lady and her husband live. They are the people whose long-lost heir we rescued from kidnapping one day.
When we arrived at their palatial estate, the heir's parents were just driving off in one of their collection of sports cars, probably bound for some sophisticated cocktail party. But they stopped and listened politely while I made my speech.
"Oh, Gregory," said the movie-starish lady when I'd finished, "must we be involved? We came to the country for peace."
"Peace at such a price," said the heir's father, "is the peace of ostriches. We want our son to grow up in a decent world, don't we?"
I have heard that is not true, by the way, about ostriches. I mean, about their burying their heads in the sand when danger comes. But I did not bring it up. And the heir's parents signed their names under Mr. Hiram Bundy's.
Our last stop was at Madame Salvini's house. The hedge had been clipped since we saw it last, and Mr. Adam Appledore was in the act of repaint-ing the mailbox, while Madame Salvini stood by holding the paint can and singing "Home on the Range" softly under her breath.
"Ayeh," said Mr. Appledore, when we told him about the new family and asked him to sign the paper. "I'll put my name to that. It takes all kinds to make a world, and a good thing too. More interesting that way."
"Why not have a housewarming party for them?" said Madame Salvini. "I would be glad to sing."
"I'll see about it," I said quickly. Because I was not sure her singing would be the kind of welcome a new family would want. But I thanked her, anyway. And the housewarming party was not a bad idea.
By this time it was getting to be late afternoon and we had biked all over most of the town. And while we may have had a ham sandwich here and a plate of cookies there, we were beginning to think lovingly of dinner. Not only that, but the thought of homework loomed. So we separated for the evening. Tomorrow at school would be soon enough to get signatures from the kids we knew.
But the next day at recess we found the playground already buzzing with discussion. Because naturally the people who were against the new family's moving in had talked about it in front of their children just as our families had talked about it in front of us.
The division was about what you'd expect. The stuffy, hopeless, purseproud ones were on the wrong side as usual, and the feckless goons who'll do anything for a little excitement. All the really good kids saw the idea right away, though, and were only too happy to sign the paper.
But of course there are always the mindless ones who never have any opinion of their own and have to borrow other people's. We worked on these and got a few more names.
Only while Lydia was handing the paper round, a big bullying boob called Clarence Hindman suddenly grabbed it right out of her hand and went running across the playground with it before James or I could stop him, and yelled out that he was going to tear it up. He might have done it, too, but just then Dicky LeBaron came round the corner.
He saw James and me and the rest of us running after Clarence and stuck out his foot just in time. Clarence tripped over it and lost his balance and almost fell and did drop the paper, and I rescued it.
"What's the big deal, dad?" Dicky wanted to know, and we told him.
He considered for a minute. "These people want to move here and some other people are trying to stop 'em?"
"That's right," I said. "This paper's to stop them stopping them."
"I'll sign that," he said. "So will you, won't you, Clarence? And so will you and you and you." And he looked round in a masterful way at the crowd of tough little kids that follows him round and hangs on his every word. Then he licked his pencil and added his name, with a flourish under it, and where he led the others followed, even Clarence, who was looking sheepish now. Altogether it made seventeen more signatures that we wouldn't have had otherwise.
"Thanks," I said.
"Forget it, dad," Dicky said. And he strutted away.
That afternoon we took the papers, three pages of them by now, to Mr. Chenoweth. He seemed pleased but troubled. What was troubling him was the same thing that had been troubling our parents.
"With these pages added to my own list," he said, "I'm sure we have enough names to show that the majority of public opinion is on our side. But I am still afraid there may be unpleasantness."
We were still afraid, too, particularly after something Gordy learned that night. Because that night a deputation from the other side called on Mrs. Witherspoon. She is an influential person in her own circle, and these people wanted her to join them, but I'm happy to say she wouldn't. She wouldn't sign our paper (because Gordy asked her), but she wouldn't go along with the intolerant ones, either. She said it would be undignified. Which is about the best we could have expected of her, I guess, considering her background and training.
But Gordy sat on the stairs and listened to everything that was said, and was not ashamed of eavesdropping in a good cause, and reported it all back to us.
What these people were planning was to march down Silvermine Road in a group the very day the new folks moved in, and hand them a lett
er saying they weren't wanted and advising them to move away again, and offering to buy the house from them for exactly what they had paid for it.
"All perfectly quiet and respectable," said the chairman df the deputation. "No violence or mob stuff. Our motive is the good of the community."
"A mob is a mob," Gordy told us his mother said then, "no matter what the motive. And it is never respectable."
And I say good for her.
We had Gordy report his counterspyings to our parents, and what he said worried them, too.
"They'll do it, and there's not a thing we can do to stop them," said James's mother.
"What day are the people moving in?" I wondered.
"Saturday," said my mother.
"That's right," said Gordy. "This mob's going down there at three o'clock Saturday afternoon."
"Then it's up to us to figure out something before then to try to counteract it," said my father.
"We could all march down there in a body, too, and say we don't agree," said my mother, "but it seems like descending to their level and squabbling."
"Like two dogs fighting over a bone," said James's father. "Who would blame the bone if it moved away in disgust?"
"We'll have to think of something better," said my father.
"Or maybe the well will," said Laura.
Our parents looked at each other.
But we went and told the well this latest development and asked it to be working on it.
"We've got three days before Saturday," I said.
But the next day, Wednesday, we still hadn't thought of anything and neither, apparently, had the well. We didn't hold a secret meeting after school that day, but went our separate ways. Homework was the excuse, but I guess everybody knew everybody else wanted to be alone and think.
I decided to go for a walk, because I generally think better on my feet, and moving. Just as I was starting out, I heard a pattering sound behind me and something went, "Seep seep seep," and I knew Alice our dog had decided to come, too. "Seep seep seep," is all Alice knows how to say, except for hunting cries. She has not found out about barking as yet.