“Look at that!” says Mark, excited as a bantam rooster. “He was married. See? B-b-bet that p-picture was taken on their weddin’ trip. It’s a weddin’-trip-lookin’ picture,” says he.
“Yes,” says I, “it sure looks foolish.”
“Hum!” says he. “This is important.”
“Good,” says I.
But the next picture—that was what startled both of us, for—maybe you won’t believe it—but it was the Man With the Black Gloves, only about twenty years younger than he is, and not wearing the gloves, but just as mean and ornery-looking then as he is now.
“There,” says Mark, “I g-guess when we leave here we t-take this album along.”
“Why?” says I.
“All those p-pictures,” says he, “has the names of the photographers on ’em, and the p-places where they was taken. We can go there or write there, and t-trace back somethin’ about Mr. Wigglesworth’s family.”
But we hadn’t seen all the album yet. There was, farther on, a picture of Mrs. Wigglesworth (at least we guessed it must be Mrs. Wigglesworth) with a baby on her lap, and Mark was like to jump out of his skin.
“I knew it m-must be,” says he. “We’re gettin’ hot,” says he.