Part 38 (1/2)

”Why?” says I.

”All those p-pictures,” says he, ”has the names of the photographers on 'em, and the p-places where they was taken. We can go there or write there, and t-trace back somethin' about Mr. Wigglesworth's family.”

But we hadn't seen all the alb.u.m yet. There was, farther on, a picture of Mrs. Wigglesworth (at least we guessed it must be Mrs. Wigglesworth) with a baby on her lap, and Mark was like to jump out of his skin.

”I knew it m-must be,” says he. ”We're gettin' hot,” says he.

After that came a lot of pictures of a kid-a girl, and she kept getting older and older, until the last one showed she was maybe eighteen or nineteen, somewheres around there-about as old as a school-teacher, maybe. And then there wasn't any more of her, and there wasn't any more of Mrs. Wigglesworth, either.

But Mark was satisfied. ”Look at that last p-picture,” says he. ”Who d-does it resemble?”

”n.o.body I kin see,” says I.

”All right,” says he; ”jest wait.”

”I hain't got anythin' else to do,” says I, ”so I might 's well.”

He stepped back and almost went off of the floor and stepped on the lath and plaster between the joists.

”Lookout!” says I. ”You'll go right through.”

He slapped his knee. ”Right t-through!” says he. ”Ain't we fat-heads?

Say, Pekoe's room's over about there, hain't it?” says he, pointing across the attic.

”Somewheres,” says I.

”Anyhow,” says he, ”we hain't been wastin' time.”

He went to the back of the house and paced off toward the front.

”I calc'late Pekoe's room is about under here,” says he, and got down on his knees and began working cautious at the plaster between two laths with his knife. He picked and picked, and at last got a hole through about as big around as a lead-pencil, then he got down on his stummick and looked through it.

”Mr. Pekoe,” says he.

”What?” says Pekoe's voice, kind of m.u.f.fled-like.

”We're h-here,” says Mark, ”up in the attic. Jethro's got us cornered, but he don't know it.”

”That's where you're ahead of me,” says he; ”Jethro's got me cornered and he _does_ know it.”

”Tell me all you know about Rock and his f-f-father,” says Mark.

”Don't know much about Rock,” says Pekoe, ”except that his father always kept him in school, and sometimes had pretty hard work to find the money to pay for it. Mostly Big Rock was in South America or Alaska or Burma or Africa or somewheres, trying to find a gold mine or a diamond mine, or somethin'. He never got to the United States at all. He wasn't a feller that talked much, but when it came to _acting_ well, you can bet he was right there. There never was a squarer pal than Big Rock, and there's men that loves him from Nome to Cape Town.”

”Where was Rock's m-m-mother?”

”Big Rock never mentioned her, but I knew she was dead. Been dead since Rock was a little baby. Guess that's why Big Rock went to globe-trottin'.”

”You don't know her name?”

”Never heard it.”