“Diff’rent folks,” says Mark, the way he always speaks when he intends to keep something to himself. “I’m just writin’ around to git a l-l-little information.”
“Thought you had all there was,” says I.
“Keep cool, Binney,” says he. “Your strong point hain’t sarcasm. Let’s go out to see Rock.”
We two went out and we expected maybe Rock would have something exciting to tell us, but he didn’t. It seems like nothing at all had happened. He hadn’t seen a thing of Pekoe, and hadn’t heard him much.
“Funny,” says Mark, “that you don’t know anything about this Pekoe, Rock, when it was him that b-brought you here.”
“Not when you know how I’ve always lived,” says Rock. “Why, I haven’t seen my father since I was a baby! I don’t even remember what he looks like. He wrote me once in a while, but his letters didn’t tell much. About all there was in them was that he would come home some day.”
“You don’t suppose this Pekoe is him, do you?”
“I know he isn’t,” said Rock, as positive as could be.
“But your father sent him,” says I.
“He didn’t say,” says Rock.