“Didn’t,” says he; “jest figgered it out—and there he is.”
He was that proud of himself just then that you couldn’t touch him with a giraffe’s neck.
“Rock,” he called, soft-like, “Rock.”
Rock jumped up so sudden he was like to have busted his head against the cave roof, and looked around scared.
“It’s Mark Tidd and the f-f-fellers,” says Mark. “Come on out.”
“How’d you find me?” says Rock, after he’d got over being scared and surprised.
“Well,” says Mark, “I knew you must be somewheres around, because you couldn’t of got away. You’d be seen or somethin’. We followed you to the river and then lost your tracks, so I knew you were perty clost to here, hidin’. This is the only good hidin’-place for a long ways, so I f-figgered you had to be here—and here you are.”
“Glad Jethro hasn’t as much brains as you have, Mark.”
“Why?”
“Because he’d have found me, instead of you.”