“And then,” says Tallow, “sometimes you wisht you hadn’t. He’d rather play a joke on somebody than do anything else in the world except think up some business scheme. I’ll bet he gets rich some day. Yes, sir, I’ll bet he gets richer than his pa.”
“Is his father rich?” says Rock.
“Got billions,” says Tallow, “and Mark got ’em for him, too. We helped some, but Mark did most of it. Mark’s father is a inventor, and some men stole his turbine, and we fellers got it back again.”
“Say,” says I, “let’s pester him a little to see what he’ll do—about that cat, I mean.”
“Better not,” says Tallow.
“Go on,” says Plunk. “Maybe we can get the best of him for once. Tell you what let’s do. Let’s make up a poem about a cat that don’t move, and recite it to him. It’ll tease him to beat the band, because he hates poetry.”
“Go ahead,” says I. “I hain’t no poet. It keeps me busy talkin’ ordinary grammar.”
“Keeps you more ’n busy,” says Plunk. “If I talked as bad grammar as you do I’d git special lessons off’n the teacher.”
“Huh!” says I. “I guess I make folks understand what I’m talkin’ about, anyhow. Git at that poem.”
They sat still, thinking about it, and pretty soon Tallow says, “How’d this do for a first line?