“Never was so glad to see anybody in my life,” says he, and he said it like he meant it.
“How d-d-did Jethro git his b-black eye?” says Mark.
“I don’t know,” says Rock, and he shivered a little. “Something has been happening. I don’t know what. I’m scared, and I’m not ashamed to own it up. Last night, just after I went to bed, somebody came to the door. After that I heard voices down-stairs, and then a whopping racket like somebody was smashing the furniture. Then there was a noise like a man was dragging a bag of flour up-stairs—way up into the third story. I didn’t dare sneak out to see what it was, but I couldn’t get to sleep. In about an hour I heard something moving around over my head somewhere. And then somebody began to thump on a door and yell, ‘Hey, there. Lemme out of here. Lemme out of here.’”
“Yes,” says Mark, eager-like.
“Then Jethro went banging up-stairs and there was a lot of yelling and banging, and then Jethro came down again. Since then I’ve heard somebody moving around up there. Every once in a while, whoever it is, takes a crack at the door and yells a little.”
“Um!” says Mark. “T-that’s what Jethro run into, Plunk. It was a f-feller’s fist, which is what causes most black eyes. I’ve heard of folks gittin’ ’em by f-fallin’ out of bed, and by runnin’ into a d-d-door in the dark, and by havin’ a bird fly into their face, and by stoopin’ over quick and buttin’ their own knee. I’ve heard of all those ways, but when you come to git the f-f-facts, most gen’ally you find out it was a fist they run into. I f-figgered it was that way with Jethro, and I guess I kin n-name the fist.”
“Go on,” says Plunk.
“It b’longed to a f-feller named Pekoe,” says Mark.
“Pekoe!” says Rock.
“That’s the f-feller.”