“When we stumbled on this mystery,” pursued Marmaduke, too much absorbed to regard George’s incivilities, “it was about ten o’clock.”
Having made a note of this, he went on, “the scene was a tangled glade in a thick jungle.”
Another note.
“Fit scene for such a tragedy!” Charles commented.
“The bones were hidden under brush-wood, which I removed,” and again his pencil was heard to scribble a note.
We say, scribble. The boy intended to “polish” his notes at a more convenient season.
“I say,” interrupted Stephen, “it isn’t your place to take all these notes; you ought to inform a constable, or, a bailiff,—or, better still, a detective!”
Marmaduke scowled at him again, but held his peace.
“Oh, I see,” continued Stephen, bent on teasing the poor boy; “you’ll hand your notes over to some detective, so that he’ll see how clever you are.”
Then Marmaduke spoke. “Boys,” he said, “I’m astonished at your levity and indifference in such a case as this.”