Part 28 (1/2)

When he was gone Mark says to Rock, ”Now you s-s-see why we wanted to f-fetch you back? We got the job w-watchin' you, and we can be with you all we want, and we can s-s-snoop around this place as much as we want to. And I can tell you I've got a heap of snoopin' to do. And we can see to it that nothin' happens to you, for one of us will be here all the time.”

”Mark Tidd,” says Rock, ”you're all right. You've got more brains in your little finger than I have in my head.”

Mark sort of threw up his head and pushed out his chest, and his little eyes just _shone_, he was so tickled. There's nothing that pleases him like getting praised when he knows it's coming to him.

”You kids go off and p-p-play somethin',” says he. ”I want to nose around this p-place to see if I can make any thin' out of that writin'

Mr. Wigglesworth left. Seems to me l-like it must have meant this p-place. Don't it to you?”

”Why?” says I.

”Because,” says he, ”there don't seem to be anythin' about the writin'

to indicate any other p-place. This was the p-place he was always at.

This was where Rock was, and the w-writin' concerns Rock, you can bet on that. What I got to do is f-find a cat that's always lookin' in one d-direction, and then f-figger on from there.”

”Sure,” says I, ”you just find me a cat that don't never turn her head, and I'll dig up a bag of gold right under her feet. The cats I know hain't used to actin' jest like that. Sometimes they move; anyways, they wiggle their ears. And the cat 'u'd _starve_,” says I. ”How could a cat live that didn't move around any?”

”Binney,” says he, slow-like, ”if you had as m-many brains in your head as you got _words_ you'd be a wonder,” and off he went, holding all three of his chins up in the air, he was so disgusted.

”He's a funny one, isn't he?” says Rock, looking after him, ”but I'll bet he's more fun than any kid I ever saw.”

”You bet he is,” says I.

”What d'you s'pose he's tryin' to find?” says Rock. ”It's sure he doesn't expect to discover a _cat_ that always sits still and looks right in one direction. He's got too much sense for that.”

”Mostly,” says I, ”you don't get on to what Mark Tidd is up to until he's done it.”

”And then,” says Tallow, ”sometimes you wisht you hadn't. He'd rather play a joke on somebody than do anything else in the world except think up some business scheme. I'll bet he gets rich some day. Yes, sir, I'll bet he gets richer than his pa.”

”Is his father rich?” says Rock.

”Got billions,” says Tallow, ”and Mark got 'em for him, too. We helped some, but Mark did most of it. Mark's father is a inventor, and some men stole his turbine, and we fellers got it back again.”

”Say,” says I, ”let's pester him a little to see what he'll do-about that cat, I mean.”

”Better not,” says Tallow.

”Go on,” says Plunk. ”Maybe we can get the best of him for once. Tell you what let's do. Let's make up a poem about a cat that don't move, and recite it to him. It'll tease him to beat the band, because he hates poetry.”

”Go ahead,” says I. ”I hain't no poet. It keeps me busy talkin' ordinary grammar.”

”Keeps you more 'n busy,” says Plunk. ”If I talked as bad grammar as you do I'd git special lessons off'n the teacher.”

”Huh!” says I. ”I guess I make folks understand what I'm talkin' about, anyhow. Git at that poem.”

They sat still, thinking about it, and pretty soon Tallow says, ”How'd this do for a first line?

”There was a boy and he was fat.

He went and hunted for a cat.”

”Fine,” says I. ”Go ahead.”