“’Tain’t a railin’,” says Mark, “it’s a battlement.”
That’s the way with him. When he’s playing a thing he plays it, and sticks to details. Everything you say or do has got to be the way it would be if what you was doing was real instead of make-believe. He was the greatest make-believer I ever saw.
We crawled out on the roof, and looked around pretty careful, I can tell you. Nobody was in sight for a while. Then we saw Rock in the yard, and after a while we saw Plunk and Tallow coming toward him. They stopped and talked with their heads close together.
“Our t-trusty friends,” says Mark, “have found a way of t-talkin’ to the young Duke.”
“Yes,” says I, “they’re doin’ it the usual way—with their mouths.”
“We got to let them know we’re h-h-here,” says he.
“Yell at ’em,” says I.
He just looked at me, and then got his slingshot out of his pocket and put a pebble in the leather. Then his eyes sort of twinkled, and he says, “If I hit where I aim, Plunk Smalley’s g-g-goin’ to git a s’prise.”
Plunk’s back was toward us, so I sort of guessed.
Mark aimed careful and let her fly. In a jiffy Plunk clapped his hand to the seat of his pants and let out a holler you could have heard in Illinoy. Then him and the others looked all around and Mark stuck up his head pretty slow, and then his hand, and waggled it.