“That’s more like it,” said Muck.

He was sitting up front in the Owls’ old school bus as Mr. Dillinger made his morning rounds to pick up the players from their billets. Muck was holding Le Soleil, the Quebec City newspaper, on his lap, and Sarah, with another copy of the paper, was sitting in the seat across the aisle and translating a story into English for him.

Travis’s original diary entry had been printed in full. The story in Le Soleil, written by the man Muck had met with at the Château the day before, was a scathing attack on the tactics of reporter Bart Lundrigan of the Montreal Inquirer. Lundrigan had been interviewed for the story and had come out looking very bad. He claimed that the quotes he had run in the paper were actually a combination of diary entries and interviews with the kids, but all of the players denied that they had been interviewed.

“He’s been completely discredited,” said Mr. Dillinger. “Serves him right.”

“Why would he have done it?” Data asked.

“He wanted a good story,” Muck said. “He couldn’t find one on his own, so he manufactured one.”

“That’s dishonest,” said Wilson.

“There are good reporters and bad reporters,” Muck said. “Just as there are good players and bad players.” In other words, case closed.

The story in Le Soleil had an immediate effect that morning, and was first noted in the Dupont home where, at breakfast, Madame Dupont had greeted Travis with big kiss on both cheeks and a hug, much to his embarrassment. Monsieur Dupont was also pleased, and smacked Travis’s back as he came for his second cup of coffee. Nicole and J-P had just smiled.

Nicole and J-P joined the bus with Travis, Nish, and Lars when Mr. Dillinger swung by the Duponts’ house. The players were free until the game that night, the Owls’ third, against a good team from Burlington, Vermont, and Mr. Dillinger was taking them all to the Ice Palace, where he would pick them all up later.

“Ish-nay ee-fray!” Nish shouted as they got off the bus. Nish is free!

“Cut it with the Pig Latin, if you don’t mind,” said Travis. “I’d just as soon never hear it again.”

Nish giggled. “O-nay oblem-pray, avis-Tray!”

What’s the use? Travis thought. Nish would never change.

Travis forgot about his problems and fell in with the running, shouting gang of Screech Owls and their new friends. He felt a mitten in his glove, and saw that Nicole had grabbed his hand. She was smiling.

“I have to stick close to you,” she said. “Sarah says we’re going to work together on your French!”

Great! thought Travis. If French classes were always like this, he’d soon be fluent!

They raced along the boardwalk to the top of the toboggan run, where they lined up to go down. Data waited at the bottom with his special wristwatch switched to run as a stopwatch. Nish was a good two seconds faster than anyone else.

“Ish-Nay ampion-chay!” he shouted in Travis’s face. Travis didn’t care. He was having fun. And Nicole’s mitten was still in his hand.

Nish tried to buy one of the bright-red hollow plastic canes so many of the adults were carrying about–and drinking from–but no one would sell him one. It was still morning, yet some of them were stopping every few minutes and taking enormous swigs, the liquid splashing down their cheeks and off their chins as they laughed and yelled while at the same time trying to drink.

“I don’t think it’s Gatorade,” said Nish.

“Neither do I,” said Travis.

He finally found one sticking out of the snow beside a bench and carried it with him as if he were one of the grownups, but he threw it away after twisting off the cap and smelling the contents.

“Here, Trav,” he said, handing the cane over to Travis. “Give this to your buddy, Barf Lundrigan–might help him write a little clearer.”

They walked back towards the Château, Nicole pointing to everything, from the river to the benches, and having Travis repeat the French word for each. They then headed down the little side street where the artists worked, and Nish and Data and Wilson all posed for a caricature that showed them playing hockey, Nish with his stick broken and with his front teeth out and a big black eye as he sat in the penalty box.

They went down the side streets and stairs to Lower Town and the harbour area.

“Let’s take the funicular back up when we’re done,” suggested Nicole. “It’s only a dollar each.”

Travis had never seen a funicular before. It was a sort of outside elevator enclosed in glass. It ran straight up the side of the cliff from Lower Town and stopped just outside the Château. Everyone agreed that it would be a terrific ride up.

After they had seen Lower Town, the Owls lined up for the funicular. It would take them all in three separate runs. Travis and Nicole, her mitten still securely in his hand, were in the first car, and everyone squeezed in tight for the doors to close and the climb to begin.

Travis and Nicole stood with their faces pressed to the glass. There was a jolt, and then the older part of the city began to fall away from them. They could soon see over the rooftops, and then all the way over to Levis. Up and up the cliff they went, higher and higher.

“I THINK I’M GONNA HURL!” shouted a voice from the back. Nish, of course, the fearless defenceman who couldn’t stand heights.

“Bet you can’t say that in Pig Latin,” said Travis, and everyone laughed.

Travis felt so good about things. The article in Le Soleil that had changed everything. The backwards pass that had tied the game against Beauport. The little joke he had just made with Nish. The soft, warm mitten curled within his fingers.

The gears wound to a stop and, with a chug, the big doors opened at the top.

“What the–!”

It was Nish’s voice again. He was at the back, and first off. There was alarm again in his voice–only this time he wasn’t kidding.

Travis and Nicole pushed through to see what it was that Nish had seen.

There were cameras waiting!

Travis cringed, but then he saw that the cameras weren’t pointed at him, for once. They were jostling for position around a wall to one side of the funicular.

The Owls all pushed out. There was a crowd gathered. People looked upset.

It took a minute for them to struggle far enough through the crowd to see what the cameras were filming. Then they wished they had gone as fast as possible in the opposite direction.

Someone had spray-painted the wall, in large, dripping, red letters.

“QUEBEC SUCKS!…FRENCH = PIG LATIN!”

“Oh, no!” said Nicole in a near whisper. Travis could feel her hand clench.

“Regardez!” shouted a man with a camera, backing away from the wall. “C’est lui!”

He was pointing straight at Travis. Others looked up and scrambled to move their cameras around. A reporter came running over.

“You’re Travis Lindsay, aren’t you?”

“Leave him alone!” Nicole shouted angrily. “This has nothing to do with him!”

“Any idea who might have done this, then?” a woman reporter asked.

Travis had none.

“Get him out of here!” J-P called to the rest of the Owls.

With Nish behind him, pushing, the Owls rushed Travis through the wall of cameras and reporters forming around him. Travis knew this would look like they were running away, but what else could they do? He didn’t want to talk to them, and he had no answers anyway. He had no idea who might have done this.

Travis could feel that awful pain in the pit of his stomach coming back again.