We asked around and found out the man drove in from the west. But there was quite a lot of country west of us, as Mark pointed out, reaching right out to the Pacific Ocean, which was a little matter of a couple of thousand miles.
“’Tain’t likely he drove from the Pacific,” says I, “and ’tain’t likely he drove more ’n twenty-five or thirty mile.”
“No,” says he, “’tain’t.... We might as well give that up for to-night. I expect Jethro and the Man With the Black Gloves are havin’ a m-m-meetin’ somewheres.”
“How about that puzzle?” says I. “The one about where the cat looks and what color is a brick, and all that stuff.”
“I hain’t l-looked at it,” says he. “Let’s see what we can make of it.”
He took it out of his pocket and we went to his house and sat down by a lamp.
“‘Where pussy looks she walks,’ it goes,” says Mark. “‘Thirty and twenty and ten and forty-six. Stop. Ninety degrees in the shade. In. Down. Across. What color is a brick? Investigate. Believe what tells the truth.’ There she is,” says he. “If you can see any sense to it, Binney, you’ve got me beat.”
“Let’s take it by chunks,” says I. “That first sentence, now. ‘Where pussy looks she walks.’ What’s there to that? Anything?”
“Huh!” says he. “Huh!” And then he went to tugging at his ear and scowling. “If we knew what pussy he was talkin’ about we might have some idee.”
“But we don’t,” says I.