Just then we came to a bridge across a sort of boy’s size river, about fifteen or twenty feet wide. Somebody had been working around it, because you could see new braces in the foundation, or whatever they call it, and some new planks. Over in the bushes at the side was some boards, and onto one of the boards was some kind of a sign. Catty took a look and then he pulled up our horse and jumped out. In a second he came back, looking as tickled as if he had eaten the cook’s best pumpkin pie, and he says: “I guess we kin manage. Git out quick and take a look,” says he. So I did, and there was a sign: “Bridge closed. Under repair.”
“Well,” says I, “what about it?”
“You drive the hoss up beyond and hustle back while I fix this up,” says he.
“Fix what up?” says I.
“You hustle along and you’ll see when you git back,” says he. And I hustled. I drove the horse along a piece, past the first farmhouse, and pulled him over to the side of the road in a clump of bushes. Then I ran back as tight as I could go. While I had been gone Catty had got out those boards and fixed them up across the bridge so as to block the way, and the sign was sticking right out in anybody’s face that came along.
“There,” says he.
“That ’ll stop him,” says I, “but it won’t show us the churn.”
“Huh!” says he. “Wait and see.”
“Goin’ to stay here?”
“Got to meet Kinderhook,” says he. “Won’t he know us?”