“Hit ahead,” says Tallow. “I dare you to. You dassent. You couldn’t bust an egg any-how—not if you jumped on it. Looky here. Here’s a chip on my shoulder. You dassent knock it off. Jest touch it with your finger, that’s all. Jest brush it off, if you’re lookin’ to go to the hospital.”
“I’ll knock it off,” says Plunk. “You bet I will. Have I got to chase you all over the yard to do it? Huh! Jest gimme one lick at you, and that’ll be all—just one good lick.... There goes your old chip.”
Spang! Tallow swatted at him, and in a second they were at it. Usually when a fellow gets to fighting in earnest he’s too busy with his fists to have much time for hollering, but the way Tallow and Plunk yelled and dared each other was a caution. I don’t see how they managed it.
“Good kids,” says Mark. “L-l-listen to ’em. That ought to fetch Jethro.”
It did. In a minute out came Jethro to see what the racket was about, and as soon as he came, the three of us slid in the side door. You bet we were pretty spry about it. Rock knew the way, and he hustled some. We stuck right to his heels. We almost jumped to the top of the first flight of stairs, and would have jumped the next but our wind was getting short. Rock stopped at the bottom of that flight.
“Cough,” says Mark, “if Jethro comes this way.”
“All right,” panted Rock, and up we went.
All the doors on that floor were shut, but we knew Pekoe’s door must be on the left side of the hall and three or four doors from the back of the house. Mark tried the fourth door, rapping on it three times soft, and then three times again.
“Who’s there?” says a voice.
“Are you Mr. Pekoe?” says Mark.