After that came a lot of pictures of a kid—a girl, and she kept getting older and older, until the last one showed she was maybe eighteen or nineteen, somewheres around there—about as old as a school-teacher, maybe. And then there wasn’t any more of her, and there wasn’t any more of Mrs. Wigglesworth, either.
But Mark was satisfied. “Look at that last p-picture,” says he. “Who d-does it resemble?”
“Nobody I kin see,” says I.
“All right,” says he; “jest wait.”
“I hain’t got anythin’ else to do,” says I, “so I might ’s well.”
He stepped back and almost went off of the floor and stepped on the lath and plaster between the joists.
“Lookout!” says I. “You’ll go right through.”
He slapped his knee. “Right t-through!” says he. “Ain’t we fat-heads? Say, Pekoe’s room’s over about there, hain’t it?” says he, pointing across the attic.
“Somewheres,” says I.
“Anyhow,” says he, “we hain’t been wastin’ time.”