Avon Fantasy Reader No. 9 — page 117: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

_ flowers, why, it’s the other way around. The flowers grow there because __there’s some quality in the springs that feeds them.” Edric was almost satisfied with this explanation. But back in his bed, later that night, Charley Anderson still lay awake, and thought, and thought. And his thoughts came to fruition a week later. It was in the middle of a discussion at the dinner-table—the usual discussion of why Henry wasn’t eating his lambstew, but this time flavored with the unusual spice of the fact that Charley was only picking at his. “It’s that dratted club of yours,” pronounced Aunt Martha. “It’s got to stop. You, Charley, you’ve been mooning around the house now almost as bad as Henry, for goodness knows how long. Just what is this club, anyway?” Charley cast a side-long look at Henry, who was looking at him with a _ strange expression—a waiting sort of look. Charley squirmed in his chair, uneasily. “Oh—it’s just a club,” he answered, sullenly; “Ya can’t tell about it while you’re in it. But they haven’t been treating me right, and I think I'll resign—and then, Mamma, I'll tell you all about it.” As he spoke the last words, he looked straight at Henry, with a sly, triumphant expression, that said even more plainly than words, “See? I have you in a cleft stick. Either you knuckle under to me, or—” | Henry looked back at him, with an unreadable gleam in his eyes. Or was it Kirwan who looked back at him? Charley—Edric—found himself unable to decide, but something made him say, quickly, “Of course, if they’re nicer to me, I won’t resign—and then I couldn’t tell.” “There, Henry,” said Aunt Martha. “I knew you were being mean to poor little Charley. You’re jealous of him, that’s what it is; because you’re a cripple and he’s a big strong, clever boy. Either you treat him right, or P’ll break up that club of yours—and I mean it!” Henry looked at his plate. His nostrils flared, but he said absolutely noth- ing for a minute. Then he looked up, his expression imitating perfectly that of a twelve-year-old boy who, while still sullen, has been forced into following a course of action repugnant to him. “Oh, all right!” he said. “We'll fix Charley up so he won’t kick.” And under his breath, he added, “Ever again.” : That night Kirwan worked late with his fine-pointed drawing pen and the | India ink. And when he had finished, the false dawn was just breaking; and showed, as he switched off his light, the addition he had made to, his map in the southeastern corner of ‘Thorvia. It was beautifully executed; a sluggish, somehow oily-looking creature. Drawn to the scale of the map, it was very large—in fact, almost half the size of the swamp itself. It had a disgusting: appearance, and was so clearly limned that one could almost see it move. Hen- ry had a distinct talent. He slept, then, with the little smile that had become almost a fixture, on his face. - “King Kirwan,” said Duke Shira, “I crave the help of some Draconian fee) 86fichting-men,” 115 COMIGDOOKS: co