Mark sort of threw up his head and pushed out his chest, and his little eyes just shone, he was so tickled. There’s nothing that pleases him like getting praised when he knows it’s coming to him.
“You kids go off and p-p-play somethin’,” says he. “I want to nose around this p-place to see if I can make any thin’ out of that writin’ Mr. Wigglesworth left. Seems to me l-like it must have meant this p-place. Don’t it to you?”
“Why?” says I.
“Because,” says he, “there don’t seem to be anythin’ about the writin’ to indicate any other p-place. This was the p-place he was always at. This was where Rock was, and the w-writin’ concerns Rock, you can bet on that. What I got to do is f-find a cat that’s always lookin’ in one d-direction, and then f-figger on from there.”
“Sure,” says I, “you just find me a cat that don’t never turn her head, and I’ll dig up a bag of gold right under her feet. The cats I know hain’t used to actin’ jest like that. Sometimes they move; anyways, they wiggle their ears. And the cat ’u’d starve,” says I. “How could a cat live that didn’t move around any?”
“Binney,” says he, slow-like, “if you had as m-many brains in your head as you got words you’d be a wonder,” and off he went, holding all three of his chins up in the air, he was so disgusted.
“He’s a funny one, isn’t he?” says Rock, looking after him, “but I’ll bet he’s more fun than any kid I ever saw.”
“You bet he is,” says I.
“What d’you s’pose he’s tryin’ to find?” says Rock. “It’s sure he doesn’t expect to discover a cat that always sits still and looks right in one direction. He’s got too much sense for that.”
“Mostly,” says I, “you don’t get on to what Mark Tidd is up to until he’s done it.”