Poison at the Pump Read online

  This book is dedicated to

  C.B. – Brad, Jordan, Bailey, Clayton, and Jack.

  S.S. – Penelope, Rose, Blakely, Zion, and Kolby.

  Poison at the Pump

  © 2020 Focus on the Family. All rights reserved.

  A Focus on the Family book published by Tyndale House Publishers, Carol Stream, Illinois 60188.

  The Imagination Station, Adventures in Odyssey, and Focus on the Family and their accompanying logos and designs are federally registered trademarks of Focus on the Family, 8605 Explorer Drive, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of Focus on the Family.

  All Scripture quotations have been taken from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. Copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  With the exception of known historical figures, all characters are the product of the authors’ imaginations.

  Cover design by Michael Heath | Magnus Creative

  For Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data for this title, visit http://www.loc.gov/help/contact-general.html.

  For manufacturing information regarding this product, please call 1-800-323-9400.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at [email protected], or call 1-800-323-9400.

  ISBN: 978-1-58997-974-1

  Build: 2020-03-17 10:25:37 EPUB 3.0

  Contents

  1: Cracked

  2: Closed

  3: Dr. John Snow

  4: Curate Henry Whitehead

  5: Mobbed

  6: Off and Running

  7: Escape

  8: Pumps & Cisterns

  9: Locked Away

  10: Aunt May

  11: The Workhouse

  12: Digging

  13: The Problem

  14: Hiram’s Store

  15: The Green Light

  Secret Word Puzzle

  About the Authors

  Cracked

  Beth sat on a wooden crate in the basement of Whit’s End. The room was filled with gadgets and tools. Someday Mr. Whittaker, also called Whit, would use each of them in one of his inventions.

  Beth’s cousin Patrick stood next to the newest Imagination Station. Its shiny black hood was open. Patrick wore large magnifying goggles.

  Beth laughed. “Your goggles make your eyes look enormous,” she said.

  Patrick laughed too.

  The sharp sound of metal scraping metal filled the air.

  Beth put her hands over her ears.

  “Sorry about that,” Whit said. He was tinkering with the engine of the Imagination Station. His white hair bobbed up and down. “That should do it.”

  Whit stood and wiped his hands on his white apron.

  “What are you fixing?” Beth asked.

  “I’m not fixing anything,” Whit said. “I’m improving the Imagination Station.”

  “How?” Patrick asked. “It’s already perfect.”

  “Well, thank you,” Whit said. “I added a new gadget. It stops germs from traveling from one adventure to the next. Let’s say you catch a cold on your adventure. You won’t have it when you return to the Model T.”

  “Oh good,” Beth said. “I hate colds.”

  Whit tilted his head, as if listening. “Oh no!” he said. “Duck!”

  Patrick dove to the ground.

  Beth hopped off the crate and shielded her face with her hands.

  Ping! Boing! Ping!

  Two springs shot out of the engine.

  The parts landed on the tile floor near Patrick.

  “Anyone hurt?” Whit asked.

  “Not me,” Patrick said. He picked up the springs.

  “I’m fine,” Beth said.

  Patrick handed the parts to Whit.

  “Thanks,” Whit said. “Let’s see. They should go here and here.”

  Whit reached into the Model T’s engine. He said, “Tesla made the container for the power source out of glass. I used it to rebuild the Imagination Station. I hope the springs didn’t smash into it.”

  Beth walked closer to the Imagination Station. She remembered Tesla from an earlier adventure. He was an inventor like Whit.

  “Is it broken, Mr. Whittaker?” Patrick asked.

  Whit’s hands reached deeper into the engine. “I think it’s fine,” Whit said.

  Beth peered under the Model T’s hood. It looked very different from a normal car engine. Rods and hoses went in all directions.

  Whit pointed to a glass tube.

  “The Imagination Station doesn’t run on gas like other cars. It runs on this bubbling liquid,” Whit said. “The glass holding the liquid is only half full. The Imagination Station needs time to make more.”

  “Can we help?” Patrick asked.

  “You can,” Whit said. “The three liquids inside the glass can be found in different places and times.”

  Whit’s eyes twinkled.

  Beth knew what that meant. She said, “We get to go on an adventure!”

  Patrick took off his goggles. “I’m ready,” he said. He jumped into the driver’s seat of the Model T.

  Beth climbed into the passenger seat.

  Whit closed the Model T’s hood. He said, “The Imagination Station will land near the liquid.” He picked up a small black box. It had a metal wand at the end of a curly cord. He handed it to Patrick.

  “Stick the wand in any liquid,” Whit said. “Then look at the button on the box. A green light means you’ve found the right one.”

  Patrick nodded. He put the small box in his pocket.

  “There’s only one liquid at your first stop,” Whit said.

  “What should we do with it?” Patrick asked. “Once we find it.”

  “Place it here,” Whit said. He showed them a compartment on the passenger side of the car.

  “It smells like lemons now,” Beth said.

  “I smell oranges,” Patrick said.

  Whit said, “I smell them too.” He lay down on the floor. Then he slid under the Imagination Station.

  Beth sniffed. She also smelled pears and peaches.

  Whit slid out from under the car. He stood up. “The spring must have cracked the power source after all. There’s a very slow leak. We’re smelling the liquid that is leaking.”

  “Don’t worry,” Patrick said. “We’ll find the liquid and hurry back. Then you can fix the Imagination Station.”

  “You can’t travel in the Imagination Station now,” Whit said. “I need to fix it first.” He frowned.

  “How will the Imagination Station get the right liquids?” Beth asked.

  “I don’t know,” Whit said. His eyes looked sad.

  Beth undid her seat belt. Our adventures have come to an end, she thought. Beth felt sad too.

  Patrick tried to undo his seat belt. But the latch was stuck. He pulled hard on it. His hand slipped. His elbow hit the red button in the middle of the steering wheel.

  “No!” Whit said.

  “No!” Beth and Patrick shouted together.

  The Imagination Station’s hum drowned out their voices.

  The lights on the dashboard blinked. The Model T whirled and shook. It moved from side to side. Small droplets of color swirled around them. The smell of fruit was strong.

  We’ll be stuck in the past forever! Beth thought.

  Then everything went bla
ck.

  Closed

  Patrick undid his seat belt and looked toward the passenger seat. Beth wasn’t there. The Imagination Station must have sent her to a different location.

  Patrick needed to find the first liquid to fix the Imagination Station. He needed to find Beth, too. Traveling together would use less of the Model T’s power source. He jumped out of the Imagination Station and slammed the door shut.

  He sniffed. The air smelled like a swimming pool next to a garbage dump.

  Patrick looked down. White powder covered the brick-lined street.

  He looked up. Three-story buildings were across from him. Many of them had shops on the ground floor. A bonnet shop was next to a hardware store. A bakery was beside a shop that sold oil.

  We’re in a city, Patrick thought.

  The Imagination Station faded.

  Patrick ignored his fear. The Imagination Station would return. He just had to find the right liquid.

  A woman came out of a building with the number forty on it. She carried two wooden buckets. Strands of brown hair escaped her white cap. She set down one bucket. She tossed dirty water from the other into the street.

  “Hello,” Patrick called.

  The woman looked over at him. “I usually toss my wash water in the cellar drain,” she said. She had an English accent. “But I found myself outside today. So I dumped it here.”

  The woman sounded troubled.

  “I’m looking for a special liquid,” Patrick said. Sweat trickled down his back. He felt overdressed in his dark pants, vest, and long-sleeved white shirt. “Do you know of any important liquids nearby?”

  The woman pointed to a pump. “We get our water here. I’d help you pump some, but the handle is too heavy,” she said.

  Patrick looked at her buckets. “Do you need water?” he asked.

  The woman nodded.

  “My name’s Patrick,” he said. “I’ll pump it for you.”

  “You’re kind,” the woman said. “My name’s Mrs. Lewis.”

  Patrick took the wooden bucket from her hand. The bucket smelled like spoiled meat.

  Mrs. Lewis picked up the second bucket. It was cleaner.

  Mrs. Lewis followed Patrick to the pump. She held her bucket under the spout.

  Patrick pushed the handle up. Then he pulled it down. It was heavy. Clean water spurted into the bucket.

  Patrick kept pumping until the bucket was full.

  A horse-drawn carriage passed them at a brisk clip. Its wooden wheels rattled over the bricks.

  Patrick noticed there were no other people on the streets.

  “Where is everyone?” Patrick asked.

  “Anyone with family outside of London has fled,” Mrs. Lewis said. “The air is filled with disease.”

  Patrick pumped water into the second bucket. “People are afraid of the air?” he asked.

  Mrs. Lewis nodded. “They stay inside and close their shutters,” she said.

  Patrick picked up both buckets. His arms ached from their weight.

  “My oldest, my son, used to help fetch our water. He died when he was five,” she said. Tears formed in her eyes. “My baby girl died a few days ago.”

  No wonder Mrs. Lewis is troubled, Patrick thought. She just lost her baby.

  “I’m sorry she died,” Patrick said.

  Mrs. Lewis wiped her tears. “She was only six months old,” she said.

  They walked toward her building.

  “This is a big house,” Patrick said.

  Mrs. Lewis opened the front door. “A rich family once lived here,” she said. “But they left years ago. Now twenty poorer families rent these rooms.”

  Patrick followed her inside.

  “My husband, Thomas, and I are very fortunate,” Mrs. Lewis said. “Most buildings have five people to a room. We rent the parlor. We’ve divided it into two rooms.” She opened her apartment door.

  The room held two chairs, a table, and a shelf. A large fireplace was on one side. A doorway led to a second room.

  “Set one bucket by the door,” she said. “I’ll do the laundry with it.”

  Patrick put the less clean bucket by the door. His arm felt so much lighter.

  Mrs. Lewis pointed to a stool. “The drinking water goes there,” she said. She handed Patrick a ladle. “Help yourself.”

  Patrick set the clean water on the stool. “Thank you,” he said. He was thirsty. He dipped the large spoon into the water and drank from it. The water was refreshing.

  Someone moaned from the next room.

  “I’m here, Thomas,” Mrs. Lewis called. She hurried to him.

  Patrick hung the curved end of the ladle on the bucket. Then he peeked into the second room. A police officer’s uniform rested over an empty wooden crib.

  Thomas was lying on a low bed. He was pale and thin.

  “I’ll be going now,” Patrick said.

  “Thank you for your help,” Mrs. Lewis said. She didn’t turn around.

  Patrick felt bad for Mrs. Lewis. Her baby had died. Now her husband was sick.

  Patrick walked back outside. He took the box with the wand out of his pocket. A small key fell to the ground.

  The Imagination Station must have given it to him. He returned the key to his pocket.

  Patrick hurried to the pump. He pulled its handle up and down. He stuck the wand into the water. No green light appeared on the box.

  A teenager neared the pump. “Hello there,” he said. “I’m Clyde.”

  The teen had dark-brown hair and tan skin. A few freckles dotted his nose. He was dressed like Patrick.

  “Hello,” Patrick said. “I’m Patrick.”

  Clyde held the handle of a large wooden box at his side.

  An older man with long sideburns walked toward them.

  Clyde set down his wooden box with a heavy thud. It was full of tools.

  Patrick pulled up the handle on the pump.

  “Stop!” the older man shouted. He reached for the handle. His long black jacket flew out behind him.

  “Hello, Dr. Snow,” the teen said. “Is this it?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Snow said. He grabbed the pump’s handle in mid-air. “You can’t get water from here. As of today, September 8, 1854, the Broad Street pump is closed!”

  Patrick’s eyes widened. He had just had a drink of water from this pump. Why is this man closing it? he wondered.

  Dr. John Snow

  Dr. Snow had on a gray vest beneath his jacket. He wore a bow tie in front of a stiff white collar. “Clyde, you can start work,” Dr. Snow said.

  He then turned to Patrick. “The pump is closed. Now off you go.”

  Have I done something wrong? Patrick wondered. He said, “Where am I supposed to go?” He let go of the handle and looked around.

  Clyde took a wrench out of his toolbox.

  Dr. Snow let go of the handle too. He said, “Where are your parents?”

  Patrick hated that question. He said, “My parents aren’t here.” He didn’t want to lie.

  “You’re an orphan,” Dr. Snow said. He waved toward a yellow flag at the end of the street. “There are so many orphans now.”

  Patrick looked at the yellow flag. “The flag means the neighborhood has orphans?” he asked.

  “No,” Dr. Snow said. “It warns people to stay away from the infection here.”

  Dr. Snow pointed across the street to Hiram’s Oil Store. A paper was posted in the window. He said, “The Board of Health notice tells about the cholera infection.”

  Maybe Mr. Lewis was sick with cholera.

  “We’re safe now,” Clyde said. “They put down the white powder.” He placed the wrench head around a bolt on the pump.

  Patrick bent down and touched the flour-like substance. Then he brought his finger to his nose.

  It smells like a swimming pool, he thought.

  “The powder is chloride of lime,” Dr. Snow said. “And it doesn’t stop cholera!”

  “Of course it does,” Clyde said. “Th
e smell keeps the infection from getting into the air.” Clyde kept working on the pump.

  “That’s nonsense,” Dr. Snow said. “I’ve been studying this disease for years. I don’t know exactly what cholera is. But I’ve mapped it. I’ve tracked it to the water from this pump.”

  Was cholera in the water? Patrick wondered. He felt sick.

  A blonde-haired girl without shoes walked toward them. She held a wooden bucket.

  “Hi, Rosie,” Clyde said.

  “Hi, Clyde,” she said. She held up her bucket. “Will you pump water for me?”

  “No!” Dr. Snow said. “Use a different pump.”

  “I only need a little,” Rosie said.

  Dr. Snow shook his head. “This pump is closed,” he said.

  Rosie glared at Dr. Snow. “You’re mean,” she said. Then she turned and ran back toward her building.

  Clyde took out a hammer. He hit the wrench attached to the pump. The clinking sound echoed down the street.

  “Everyone thinks I’m wrong about the cholera outbreak,” Dr. Snow said. “But the infection does come from this water.”

  Thud! The pump handle fell free.

  Clyde smiled. “I’ll take it to the Board of Guardians,” he said.

  Dr. Snow tossed Clyde a coin.

  The teenager caught it. He dropped it into the toolbox.

  “It won’t pay the rent. But it’s a start,” he said. He picked up the pump handle. “Good day.”

  “’Bye,” Patrick said.

  Clyde walked away.

  “Clyde and Mrs. Lewis think the infection is in the air,” Patrick said.

  Dr. Snow withdrew a paper from his jacket and unfolded it. The paper looked like a map.

  “They’re wrong. The water is the problem,” Dr. Snow said.

  He shook his head. “Hundreds have been infected,” he said. “The bars on my map show the deaths from cholera.”

  Patrick took the map from Dr. Snow. A lot of people around the Broad Street pump had been infected.

  “You don’t understand. I drank water from this pump today,” Patrick said. “Do I have cholera?”

  “Only time will tell,” Dr. Snow said. “Today you were exposed. It could take up to five days to feel the symptoms.”