Figgs & Phantoms

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PUBLISHED FIFTY TIMES A YEAR

 

 

Has the Figg-Newton giant grown too tall?

“Yes,” says Alma Lumpholtz. “It's bad for my blood pressure.”

Mrs. Lumpholtz was on her way home from Harriet's Beauty Salon at four o'clock yesterday afternoon when the Figg-Newton giant appeared. It made threatening gestures and nearly toppled on her head, forcing her to take refuge in the newly installed telephone booth at the corner of Hemlock and Ash, which the giant then proceeded to shake.

“A person is not safe on the streets anymore,” said Mrs. Lumpholtz, who is contributing ten cents to the “Separate the Figg from the Newton” campaign.

PUFFIN BOOKS

 

Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

First published in the United States of America by E. P. Dutton,
a division of NAL Penguin Inc., 1974
Published by Puffin Books, 1989
This edition published simultaneously by Puffin Books and Dutton Children's Books,
divisions of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2011

 

Copyright © Ellen Raskin, 1974

All rights reserved

 

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PUFFIN EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-48600-9

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-48600-9

 

 

 

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

T
HE BLACK-CLAD GIANT moved slowly, silently, like a grotesque late-afternoon shadow, past the shops on Hemlock Street. Head erect, shaded eyes unseeing, the monstrous, hovering creature seemed to defy nature as it balanced its teetering bulk on two small feet.

Suddenly the giant stumbled. Its head whipped backward, forward; its flailing arms thrashed the air. The huge, distorted body threatened to break in two as it writhed and swooped, twisting and lurching in ragged circles. At last it jackknifed to a stop atop the telephone booth where Mrs. Lumpholtz had run for cover.

“Figgs!” hissed Mrs. Lumpholtz.

The giant pushed against the booth and straightened to its more than nine feet. A dime clinked into the coin-return slot.

“We're so sorry, Mrs. Lumpholtz,” the giant apologized. The muffled voice seemed to come from the fourth button of its tattered cloak.

“You're too old for such childishness, Mr. Florence I. Figg,” Mrs. Lumpholtz snarled back at the fourth button. Pocketing the dime, she squeezed out of the booth, shook a fist at the scowl under the wide black hat, and spluttered, “And you're getting too ... too big, Mona Lisa Newton!”

The scowl deepened. Mona struggled to think of a cutting reply equal to her bruised feelings. Words tumbled around in her head, stumbled and bumped into one another and lay dead, unspoken. Mrs. Lumpholtz huffed off to the office of
The Pineapple Weekly Journal
(published fifty times a year) as Mona watched in dumb anguish.

 

 

Mona adjusted her feet on the shoulders of her Uncle Florence and released her grip on the telephone booth. “Ready,” she called.

Knees buckling, the Figg-Newton giant staggered on its unsteady way toward Bargain Books.

“You are growing up, Mona,” Uncle Florence mumbled. “You are growing up, and I am growing old.”

Mona dipped her knees and ducked her head as Uncle Florence stepped through the doorway of the bookshop. The giant paused to adjust to the dim dustiness, then shuffled toward the rear wall, past Ebenezer Bargain perched on a tall stool behind his high desk. The wizened bookseller was bent over a book, thick glasses weighing heavily on his beaked nose.

Mona bit hard on her upper lip, trying to stifle a sneeze as she stared down from the dizzying height at the small bald spot on top of the old man's head. The bald spot reflected the shop's one hanging bulb; and it seemed to Mona that years of sitting in the same position must have burned this desert patch in his thicket of silver hair.

Then Mona sneezed. Jolted, Uncle Florence gripped his niece's ankles firmly as she flapped her arms like a landing goose. The giant reeled giddily, slammed into book bins and stumbled against the shelves. Clutching a bracketed support, Uncle Florence gasped for breath. Mona glanced around furtively.