Break for the Basket Read Free Page B

had cut, and he painted pictures. It wasn’t
     easy to paint pictures. Mom and Dad couldn’t do it.
    “I’ll just knock easy,” Emmett said.
    He put on his coat, hat, and mittens. He carried the little brown bag with his uniform inside of it to Mr. G.’s apartment
     and knocked lightly on Mr. G.’s door. He knocked again, but there was no answer.
    He was ready to believe that Mr. G. was asleep when the front door opened and Mrs. Maxwell stuck her head around the corner
     of the house.
    “If you’re looking for Mr. G., he isn’t here,” she said abruptly. “Matter of fact, he hasn’t been home in three days. I don’t
     know where he is.”
    She sounded angry and disgusted. She turned and went back into the house.
    Mr. G. not home for three days? Where had he gone? Had he left the city without saying good-bye? Was he that discouraged about
     his failure as a painter?
    Emmett’s heart ached. Mr. G. was a real friend. Emmett could not believe that Mr. G. would have left the city without at least
     saying good-bye to him.
    Emmett started walking toward the Northside Community Hall. Presently he reached a corner. He looked to his right. Two blocks
     away a tall, orange-brick structure with pillars in front of it caught his eye. It was the Fenway Museum of Art, in which
     paintings of all descriptions hung on the walls. Many a time he would go there with Mr. G. Together they would look at the
     paintings. Sometimes they would spend hours there.
    “It’s like reading a book,” Mr. G. had once explained. “I enjoy looking at paintings as much as I enjoy painting. It’s a joy
     that fills the heart like soft rain in the summertime, or like reading the funnies on an early Sunday morning.”
    Emmett walked rapidly to the building. He walked up the long steps and then pulled open the tall, heavy door. The place was
     silent. He walked quietly across the carpeted floor. The eyes of the people in the paintings watched him as if they were alive.
    He walked into another vast room filled with paintings of every size and of everything you could think of paintings of a riverboat,
     a seashore, snowcapped mountains, people, and animals. Emmett began to feel that he wasn’t alone any more.
    A low, deep voice startled him. “Good morning, young fellow. Enjoying yourself?”
    Emmett whirled. A gray-haired man in shirtsleeves was standing there with a broom and a dustpan.
    “I’m looking for Mr. G.,” said Emmett.
    The man’s brows arched. “Who?”
    “Mr. G.,” Emmett repeated. “A friend of mine. He’s a painter. He’s a little man, and he’s got red hair. I’m looking for him.”
    The lines in the man’s face deepened as he smiled. “Red hair? Why, that must be the fellow who was standing at the door when
     I opened up. Came in, browsed around awhile, then left.”
    “He was here?” Emmett’s eyes widened. “When did he leave?”
    “Just a few moments ago. Said he was going down to the lake to paint a picture.”
    Almost before saying thank you, Emmett turned and dashed out of the building. He raced down the steps and ran all the way
     to Crandall Lake, which wasn’t too far. He stopped on its shore. It was a narrow lake and frozen all the way across. Emmett
     looked around the shore, at the bare trees and the empty picnic tables and benches. There was no sign of Mr. G.

    A train whistle hooted like a sad wail in the distance. Emmett looked across the lake. A figure caught his eyes a familiar
     figure — standing in the middle of the railroad tracks with a briefcase in his hand. He was looking the other way, at the
     buildings of the city stretching into the sky like mammoth rocks growing out of the earth, at the columns of smoke rising
     from a thousand chimneys, at the bright specks of lights that were windows touched by the morning sun.
    So that was what Mr. G. had come to paint. Not the lake, but the city on the other side of the tracks.
    “Mr. G.!” Emmett shouted. “Mr. G.!”
    He started to run