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“Yeah, I guess so,” Greg said.

“You guess so?” Lemon Brown’s voice rose
an octave as he started to put his treasure
back into the plastic. “Well, you got to guess

‘cause you sure don’t know nothing. Don’t
know enough to get home when it’s raining.”

“I guess…I mean, you’re right.”

“You OK for a youngster,” the old man said
as he tied the strings around his leg, “better
than those scalawags what come here looking
for my treasure. That’s for sure.”

“You really think that treasure of yours was
worth fighting for?” Greg asked. “Against

a pipe?”

“What else a man got ‘cepting what he can
pass on to his son, or his daughter, if she be his oldest?” Lemon Brown said. “For a
big-headed buy you sure do ask the foolishest questions.”

Lemon Brown got up after patting his rags in place and looked out the window again.

“Looks like they’re gone. You get on out of here and get yourself home. I’ll be watching
from the window so you’ll be all right.”

Lemon Brown went down the stairs behind Greg. When they reached the front door
the old man looked out first, saw the street was clear and told Greg to scoot on home.

“You sure you’ll be OK?” Greg asked.

“Now didn’t I tell you I was going to East St. Louis in the morning?” Lemon Brown
asked. “Don’t that sound OK to you?”

“Sure it does,” Greg said. “Sure it does. And you take care of that treasure of yours.”

“That I’ll do,” Lemon said, the wrinkles around his eyes suggesting a smile. “That I’ll do.”

The night had warmed and the rain had stopped, leaving puddles at the curbs. Greg
didn’t even want to think how late it was. He thought ahead of what his father would
say and wondered if he should tell him about Lemon Brown. He thought about it until

he reached his stoop, and decided against it. Lemon Brown would be OK, Greg thought,
with his memories and his treasure.

Greg pushed the button over the bell marked Ridley, thought of the lecture he knew his
father would give him, and smiled.

– Walter Dean Myers

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