“Binney,” says he, sober as a judge, but with a twinkle in his little eyes, “I calc’late you’re right for once, though how you come to manage it I don’t know. We sure don’t know what cat’s bein’ d-d-discussed.”
“Where she looks she walks,” I says. “Oh, rats! it’s crazy!”
“If,” says Mark, “it means anythin’ at all, it’s givin’ a direction. See? If Mr. Wigglesworth left a message and this is it, why, maybe, just for instance, he’d hid somethin’. Eh? And if he hid somethin’, why, he wanted somebody to f-f-find it, but he wanted that s-somebody to be the right p-person.”
“Yes,” says I, “but who’s the right person?”
“Rock,” says he.
“How d’you know?” says I.
“B-because,” says he, “it was Rock he gave the p-puzzle to.”
“All right so far,” says I. “But let’s git back to pussy and what’s she’s lookin’ at. Most likely it’s a bird. Cats is gen’rally lookin’ at birds.”
“This cat wouldn’t be,” says he. “It would be l-lookin’ somewhere definite, and it would keep l-lookin’. What would be the use sayin’ it at all if the cat wouldn’t still be lookin’ where Mr. Wigglesworth wanted it to when we found her?”
“None,” says I, “which makes the whole thing look crazier ’n ever. A cat don’t set around eyin’ one spot permanent, even if it’s a mouse-hole. Cats move around,” says I, “and hain’t to be depended on.”