Read The Potato Chip Puzzles: The Puzzling World of Winston Breen for Free Online

signs.”
    “How many puzzlers are there?” asked Mr. Garvey.
    “I have no idea. You’ll meet them all soon enough.” She pointed again, all but declaring that question time was over.
    They passed a number of small offices as they walked down the hall. Phones were ringing, and men and women were at their desks doing who knew what. They followed the signs and wound up outside a closed door with a sign that said “Puzzlers Welcome.” Winston felt an electric tingle in his bloodstream. They were minutes away from the true start of the day.
    Mr. Garvey said, “All right, boys. Best behavior. No spitballs or flamethrowers.”
    “I left my flamethrower at home,” said Mal.
    “Mine’s broken,” said Jake.
    Mr. Garvey nodded, accepting this bit of humor. He opened the door.
    The main conference room had a hundred seats or more. Groups of three or four seats were fastened to their own little tables facing a small stage. The stage, at the moment, was empty.
    There were a couple dozen kids here with their adult chaper-ones. Some kids were pacing, while others sat and chatted with their teammates. There was a tension in the air, the kind that precedes an exciting event you know is supposed to happen at any moment.
    Mr. Garvey led his team to one of the empty tables. Nearby teams eyed them curiously. Winston saw that all the kids were about his age—no little kids from an elementary school and no high-schoolers, either. So Dmitri Simon must have restricted the contest to middle schools, after all. This was good.
    “I wonder how many teams there’ll be,” said Jake. He swiveled back and forth in his chair, restless. A lot of kids were swiveling.
    “They must be coming from all over the state, don’t you think?” said Winston.
    “I hope not,” said Mr. Garvey. “The fewer the better.” Something across the room caught his attention. “Oh, no,” he said.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Lincoln is here,” Mr. Garvey said with quiet horror.
    “Abraham?” asked Mal.
    The math teacher set his jaw, as if jokes were not appropriate at a time like this. “Lincoln Junior High. Well, of course they would be here. That’s Rod Denham, their Mathlete adviser. I bet he has three kids from their math team here.”
    “Are they good?” Jake asked.
    “They’re very good. In fact”—there was the slightest pause before Mr. Garvey said, “we’ve never beaten them.” He shook his head, as if this news could hardly be worse.
    The teacher in question, Rod Denham, was a short, wide fellow wearing a brown sportcoat. He was talking with two boys and a girl, all of whom were listening intently. Mr. Denham must have felt them staring—he suddenly glanced over and, seeing Mr. Garvey, waved, an ironic smirk on his face.
    “Oh, he saw us,” Mr. Garvey said unhappily. “Be good for a moment, I have to say hello.” Mr. Garvey got up and approached his rival with a wide smile, his arms spread in warm greeting.
    Winston guessed that Mr. Garvey regretted, more than ever, not replacing all three of them with students from his math class. Well, it was too late now. He swiveled in his chair and watched more teams come in.
    “You’re Winston Breen!” said a voice behind him.
    Winston swiveled around, and so did Mal and Jake. A boy was standing there. His hair was unbrushed and pointing every which way, and he wore an expression of wide-eyed delight. He said, “Right? You’re Winston Breen! I knew you’d be here today. You had to be.”
    Winston said, “Uh.”
    The boy continued, glowing like a child meeting Santa Claus. “I read about you in the paper. When you found that buried treasure? Remember?”
    “Uh,” Winston said again. He wanted to say, “No one forgets finding buried treasure,” but was too startled to find the words. Who was this kid?
    Whoever he was, he kept talking. “I wish I could find buried treasure. But this will be just as good, don’t you think? What do you suppose the puzzles will be like? Maybe they’ll