The Mystery of the Antique Doll

worried.
    “Nope. And thank you very much,” he said, smiling absently. “Now it’s getting late, and I have lots to do.”
    “You’re welcome, Mr. Reid,” Trixie said. Then she stepped forward. “Actually, I have a sort of favor to ask you, too, if you have a minute.”
    Mr. Reid looked at her sharply. “Yes?”
    “Uh, well,” Trixie continued as quickly as possible, “I have this article to write for the school paper about a local merchant, and I wanted to write my article about you and the antique toys in this store. They’re so interesting, and I’m sure everyone else would think so, too. And it would be helpful advertising for you if there was an article about your—”
    “No articles!” Mr. Reid interrupted. “I mean, not this week. I have a lot of things to take care of—Christmas season, you know. Maybe after Christmas. Now look, I’ve got work to do. I’ll talk with you two some other time.”
    Shocked at his response, Trixie could do nothing but mumble good-night and stalk out the door.
    “Of all the nerve!” she snapped, as she got into the car. “After I did a favor for him, would he do one for me in return? No, he would not.”
    “What’s all this about?” Brian asked, shutting off the radio and backing the car out onto the road.
    “That selfish man won’t even let me interview him for the school newspaper!” Trixie said, folding her arms across her chest in disgust. “After the big favor we did for him, I think that’s crummy! I only want half an hour of his time. What nerve!”
    Honey didn’t have anything to say, and Brian drove them quietly home while Trixie fumed.
    They pulled up in front of the Manor House, and Honey got out of the station wagon.
    “See you tomorrow!” she called.
    “Bye,” Trixie said glumly. She didn’t say a word as Brian parked the Bob-White station wagon, and then she stomped into the house.
    Trixie tried to get up the stairs to her room where she could fume in privacy, but she was stopped by Bobby. The little boy came running around a corner and grabbed her knees.
    “Trixie, Trixie, Trixie,” he sang. “I’m so glad you’re home early! Could you please help me with my room?”
    “Oh Bobby,” Trixie said. “I have so much to do. Why do you need help?”
    “Moms says I have to clean up my room,” Bobby moaned. “She says I’ll get lost in there one of these days, and no one will be able to find me!”
    “It’s true that you have a lot of junk,” Trixie said, drawn out of her bad mood by Bobby’s little worried face. “But I doubt if you’ll get lost in there before this weekend. I promise I’ll help you then, okay?”
    “Okay,” Bobby agreed. “But Moms says I have to clear a path to my bed right now. Could you help me just a little tonight?”
    “All right, sweetie,” Trixie said. “Just let me take off my jacket, okay? I’ll help you until dinner time, but after that, I have a ton of homework to get done.”

    Even though Trixie was annoyed at Mr. Reid for not agreeing to the interview, it turned out for the best. She was so busy all week with chores and homework that she wouldn’t have had time to do the interview anyway. She and Honey had not practiced their spelling words in Paris after all, and now they had to work twice as hard to catch up. The Eastern Regional was on Saturday. They practiced every chance they could find, but Trixie worried that it was not enough.
    With high hopes, but rather low expectations, the two girls went into New York City on Saturday morning, accompanied by Miss Trask and Helen Belden. The spelling competition was held in one of the big conference rooms at the Sheraton Hotel. Trixie and Honey were so nervous when they were seated at the front of the large room filled with strangers, they could barely breathe. Trixie’s plaid wool skirt felt even itchier than usual. It was all she could do to keep from squirming in her seat.
    The voice of the competition leader seemed to be coming through water, and when it was Trixie’s turn she felt strangely light-headed. She stood in front of the microphone, listening carefully.
    “Miss Trixie Belden from Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson. The word is— pusillanimous .”
    Trixie’s answers sounded to her as though they were being delivered by someone else, and she felt miles and miles away. The microphone had a strange echo to it. Afterward, Trixie had very little recollection of anything she had said, and no recollection of Honey’s answers,