“And a barrel of flour,” says I, “and a crate of eggs, and a crock of baked beans, and a side of bacon—”
“Huh!” says he. “I guess there won’t be much l-left.”
“I wonder,” says I, “if they let our Duke go prancin’ around outdoors, or do they keep him shut up in a dongeon?”
“Can’t never tell about this crowd,” says Mark. “They’re l-liable to do ’most anythin’. I calc’late, though, he’ll be let out some, with a strong guard.”
“If the guard’s around, how’ll we git to talk to him?”
“That’s what we got to f-find out,” says he.
We got to where we could see Mr. Wigglesworth’s house—the castle, I should say—along about nine o’clock. It was a big place with porches and lots of windows and curlicues and gables and wings, and such like. I can’t ever see what one old man ever did with all of it. It was in the middle of a whopping yard that was beginning to look run down. The grass hadn’t been cut as often as it ought to have been, and things was beginning to grow up in the gravel walk. In a month more it would look like one of those houses where nobody lives.
There was a hedge all along the front higher than my head, but when we had crept up close I poked my head through and had a good look. It was a funny kind of a place. Sort of a menagerie, only the animals weren’t alive. There were some deer and a big dog and a cat and a lion—all made out of stone or something.
“Huh!” says I. “If I was goin’ to keep pets I’ll bet they’d be the kind I could teach tricks to. What good ’s a stone dog, I’d like to know.”
“It’s art,” says Mark.