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Who yodeled and played the kazoo and hated girls more than all the other boys in the gang combined.

Pipkin, whose arm around your shoulder, and secret whisper of great doings this day, protected you from the world.

Pipkin.

God got up early just to see Pipkin come out of his house, like one of those people on a weatherclock. And the weather was always fine where Pipkin was.

Pipkin.

They stood in front of his house.

Any moment now that door would open wide.

Pipkin would jump out in a blast of fire and smoke.

And Halloween would REALLY begin!

Come on, Joe, oh, Pipkin, they whispered, come on!

The front door opened.

Pipkin stepped out.

Not flew. Not banged. Not exploded.

Stepped out.

And came down the walk to meet his friends.

Not running. And not wearing a mask! No mask!

But moving along like an old man, almost.

"Pipkin!" they shouted, to scare away their uneasiness.

"Hi, gang," said Pipkin.

His face was pale. He tried to smile, but his eyes looked funny. He was holding his right side with one hand as if he had a boil there.

They all looked at his hand. He took his hand away from his side.

"Well," he said with faint enthusiasm. "We ready to go?"

"Yeah, but you don't look ready," said Tom. "You sick?"

"On Halloween?" said Pipkin. "You kidding?"

"Where's your costume--?"

"You go on ahead, I'll catch up."

"No, Pipkin, we'll wait for you to--"

"Go on," said Pipkin, saying it slowly, his face deathly pale now. His hand was back on his side.

"You got a stomachache?" asked Tom. "You told your folks?"

"No, no, I can't! They'd--" Tears burst from Pipkin's eyes. "It's nothing, I tell you. Look. Go straight on toward the ravine. Head for the House, okay? The place of the Haunts, yeah? Meet you there."