“Ketchin’ worms,” says Mark. “Say, Mr. Soggs, been missin’ anythin’ around here l-l-lately?”
“How’d you know?” says Soggs. “You boys hain’t campin’ out around here, be ye? ’Cause if ye be, and it’s you that’s been a-pesterin’ my wife, stealin’ pies off n the winder-sill and sich, I’ll have the law on ye.”
“Not guilty,” says Mark. “What was stolen?”
“A hull apple pie ’n’ a hunk of ham ’n’ half a loaf of bread.”
“Too bad,” says Mark, but I could see a twinkle in those little eyes of his. “Hope it didn’t spoil your meal, Mr. Soggs.”
“I managed,” says Soggs, “I managed.”
“To be sure,” says Mark. “Well, we’ll be movin’ on. G’by, Mr. Soggs.”
“G’by to ye,” says he, and off we went.
“There,” says Mark when we were out of hearing. “Now what you got to say?”
“Same’s ever,” says I. “What’s a missin’ pie got to do with Rock?”