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interrupting.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œI said stop interrupting.” He stared at me for a moment, then continued with the story. “My friends dared me to go into the house … .”
    I got up. So did Rupert. I backed away a step. So did Rupert. “There’s really a bear behind you,” I said, pointing to the shape that was rising up a foot or two away from Mr. Dwerkin and batting at the dangling sack of food.

    Rupert pointed, too. “Honest. Just look.”
    â€œRight. I’m going to fall for that old trick from a couple kids who don’t even know how to build a campfire. No way. Besides, bears are afraid of fire. Now, will you let me finish?”
    I backed off a couple more steps. The bear gave up on the sack. It went back on all fours and sniffed the air, then looked over at Mr. Dwerkin and licked its snout. It didn’t seem to be scared of the fire at all.
    â€œI’m not going to let you miss the story,” Mr. Dwerkin said. “You need to finish what you start. And show some respect for your elders. It’s for your own good.” He started shouting the story. I guess he was determined to make sure we heard it.
    Rupert and I scurried farther into the woods, but we were still close enough to hear the ending.
    â€œAnd then I saw the ghost!” Mr. Dwerking shouted. “And the ghost grabbed me and then …”
    â€œIs this where he screams?” Rupert asked.
    â€œProbably.”
    â€œI became the ghost!” Mr. Dwerkin shouted. The end of the story was followed by a scream. It was a loud scream and a long one. A lot longer than I’d expected.
    â€œStupid story,” I said. “But I have to admit, the scream was pretty good.”
    â€œYeah. That’s the one part of it he did right. But I’m still not going back right now.”
    â€œMe, either. Want to go see what the Girl Scouts are doing?”

    â€œYou think they’re done singing?” Rupert asked.
    â€œNah. Those songs last forever. But at least they don’t act like they know everything.”
    â€œYeah. And they don’t smell like lunch meat.”

CAT NAPPED
    â€œL ET ME GO, YOU WRETCHED BEAST!”
    The shout came from the backyard.
    Oswald heard it through the open window in his bedroom. As he ran down the steps and out the back door, he wondered about the voice. It was loud but small.
    Oswald had no trouble finding the source. The shouting kept on, nonstop, from under the dogwood tree. Raffi, Oswald’s gray tabby cat, stood there with her prey dangling from her jaws.
    The prey was the source of the loud-but-small shouts. The prey himself was loud but small.
    â€œWow,” Oswald said. The tiny guy in the green suit had to be a leprechaun. No mistake.
    Raffi had the collar of the leprechaun’s green coat clamped in her jaws.
    â€œWRETCHED BEAST!” the captive shouted.
    Oswald, who was no fool in these things, leaped straight
to the point. “I get a pot of gold, right? Isn’t that the deal? I let you go, and you give me gold.”
    The leprechaun glared at him.
    â€œCome on, is that it?” Oswald asked.
    Raffi shook her head, rattling the leprechaun around like an empty glove.
    â€œSTOP THAT!” the leprechaun shouted. “All right, I’ll give you gold, but you have to provide the pot.”
    â€œWhat?” Oswald didn’t understand.
    â€œThe pot, you dim-witted foul-breathed monster,” the leprechaun said. “Go get a pot, I’ll fill it with gold, and we’ll be done with the whole thing.”
    â€œDeal.” Oswald ran into the kitchen and searched through the cabinets. There were tons of pots, pans, skillets, and bowls. But they weren’t big enough. Oswald knew the pot he wanted—the pot his mom used when she made soup. He imagined how it would look filled with gold. That would be an awful lot of treasure.
    He spotted the pot. It was sitting on the kitchen