“No,” says I, “my eddication hain’t got that far.”
He drew it out on the ground, and then it was as plain as plain could be.
“You walk where the c-c-cat looks,” says he, excited and stuttering like the mischief. “When you’ve walked as far as the writin’ says—a hunderd and t-ten feet, wasn’t it?—you turn off at a right angle, and there you are.”
“Which way d’you turn?” says I.
That stopped him a minute, but he recited over Mr. Wigglesworth’s writing: “‘Where p-pussy looks she walks. Thirty and twenty and ten and forty-six. N-ninety degrees in the shade. In. Down. What color is a b-brick? Investigate. B’lieve what t-tells the truth.’”
“Yes,” says I.
“What comes after ninety degrees in the shade?” says he.
“‘In,’” says I.
“In what?” says he.
“I dunno,” says I.