“How should I know?” says Mark. “Let’s head for the arbor and see if he’s left a l-letter.”
We ducked off the road and slid up the hedge. This time Mark was too interested in what was really happening to do any pretending about dukes or knights, so we just sneaked along like a couple of boys till we got to the arbor, and wriggled through the hedge. There was a letter in the hiding-place.
Dear Friend [the letter said], I’m going away. I don’t like it here because Jethro keeps getting meaner and meaner, and watches me all the time like I was in jail, and won’t let me do anything. I won’t stand it. Jethro isn’t anything to me, and neither is that man with black gloves that comes and scowls at me and asks a lot of questions. I’m going off to China or Florida or the South Sea Islands or some place, so most likely I’ll never see you again.
I don’t know what I was brought to this place for. If anybody has a right to make me stay, why doesn’t he say so? I might as well be in jail. I guess I can earn a living, all right. Maybe I’ll go to Alaska and dig gold. Maybe I’ll write to you some day.
Yours truly,
Rock.
“H’m!” says Mark. “He’s g-goin’ a lot of places, hain’t he?”
“Wisht I was goin’ with him,” says I. “The South Sea Islands sounds fine.”
“But it’s quite a walk,” says Mark, “especially when you think about crossin’ the Pacific Ocean to get there.”
“He’d stow away on a vessel?” says I.
“Shucks!” says he. “Rock won’t get twenty m-miles from Wicksville.”
“Bet he does,” says I.
“Shucks!” says Mark again. “We got to f-find him, and I hain’t goin’ to look in Alaska, nor Florida, either.”