“Alfred,” I says. “Alfred Bell! Horse! Uncle Hieronymous Alphabet Bell’s horse!”
“What?” he says, so astonished he stopped still in his tracks.
“Sure’s shootin’,” I told him.
“It’s all right, then,” says he. “We don’t need to w-w-worry any more.”
“I should think we ought to worry more than ever.”
“’Course not. He’ll get your note, prob’ly t-to-night. That’ll set him on his guard.”
“What note?” I asked, feeling a sort of sinking in my stomach.
“Why,” says he, “the one you pinned on the stall where he’d be sure to see it.”
Now what do you think of that? Of course that was what I should have done, and it would have ended the battle right there, but I never thought of it. It was so plain to see, Mark thought of course I’d done it. I never was so ashamed in my life as when I had to tell him I didn’t.
“Well,” says he, heaving his fat shoulders, “we know your uncle’s near, anyhow.” Then he sort of sighed. “Too b-b-bad I can’t be everywhere,” he says, and that was all. He never spoke another word of blame. Mark Tidd never wasted much time crying over spilt milk.