Silver Rain Read Free

Dannell reached inside his jacket and pulled out his oilcloth baccy pouch. He rolled a cigarette as he walked. “I have a brilliant idea,” he said. “A failsafe plan, if I do say so myself.”
    â€œCan I help? Ern — Scoop and me are both good at schemes. They don’t always work, but no one gets hurt.”
    Uncle Dannell snorted. “Sounds like something your Nan might say. But mustn’t talk ill. Not many other people would take me in like that. Not after what my no-good brother did to you and your mother.” He tucked his pouch back in his jacket. “But let’s not be gloomy. My scheme, you may wish to know…”
    But Elsie wasn’t listening. Instead, she watched an old man muttering to himself as he leaned against a lamppost. He bent over and shoved a handful of newspaper into his boots. He wore a hat too, but his was stained, and ragged on one side. Not as nice as hers. He pulled it down low over his eyes like she did though.
    Most of the hoboes never looked at you, Elsie realized. Not straight on. So as she passed him, she said, “Good morning, sir,” to see what would happen.
    Instead of answering — which would have been the polite thing to do — the man just lifted his other foot and shoved more newspaper into that boot before he pulled his trouser leg down as far as it would go. Which wasn’t far. His thin ankles stuck out like gray sticks above his boots. It looked like he got his clothes from the church rummage, just like she had to these days.
    â€œâ€¦and it’ll be a breeze.” Uncle Dannell stopped to wait for Elsie and Dog Bob, who was doing his business against a wall covered in torn posters. “If I sell forty tickets, that’s fourteen dollars’ profit,” he told her. “No problem. Don’t you think? Now, where is that boy?”
    They looked around, but there was no sign of Scoop. “Where is this place Scoop talked about, anyway?” asked Elsie. “If I’m late to school, Miss Beeston will give me lines.”
    â€œDid you hear a word I said?” Dannell asked. “I’m not used to being ignored. Oops. There he is.” He grabbed Elsie’s hand. “Here we go.” With Dog Bob scuttling behind, he hauled her between the few cars lined up along the sidewalk, and then across the road and over the railroad tracks on the other side.

C HAPTER F OUR
    U ncle Dannell didn’t often run. He was panting hard by the time they reached Scoop, who was leaning against a broken wooden crate. He scribbled busily in his notebook, then closed it with a snap and stuck the pencil behind his ear. “See that?” He waved one arm. “All that wood and stuff there was part of Mr. Branscombe’s warehouse just yesterday. Now it’s a shantytown. Or will be when those shackers have done.”
    Wooden planks and sheets of corrugated metal had been used to build a jumble of shacks and lean-tos. Mountains of rusty old car parts rose between them. A huddle of men stood around a big black kettle balanced on a blazing fire.
    Elsie watched a man crawl out from a hole between teetering piles of wood. He stretched and scratched and looked around as he joined the others at the fire. He held something on a stick above the flames.
    â€œSquirrel for supper, do you think?” said Uncle Dannell. “Or rabbit?”
    Elsie swallowed hard as Dog Bob trotted toward the men, drawn by the greasy smell rising from their fire.
    Uncle Dannell quickly called to him. “Good boy. You stay here.” He gave Dog Bob a quick pat when he came right back. “The survival instinct of those fellas,” he said, shaking his head. He waved one arm at the shantytown. “It’s a marvelous thing, I don’t think.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe and tucked the stub into his pocket.
    Elsie studied the men as they worked. Some wore pants, shirts and suspenders.