He nodded yes.
“What for?” I asked.
He pointed up the road toward Larsen’s, and there, coming along as fast as they could walk, were Collins and the fat man we saw in Billy’s wagon that afternoon. “Th-th-that’s why,” says Mark.
“What have they got to do with it?”
“I got a sort of f-f-feelin’ I don’t want those f-f-fellows to see your uncle Hieronymous. Dun’no’ jest why, but that’s the way I f-f-feel.”
“Well,” says I, “they won’t see him for a couple of weeks now.”
“Not if you f-f-fellers don’t blab where he is,” says Mark.
“You needn’t worry,” I says, sharp-like. “Guess we can keep our mouths shut if there’s any need.”
“May be no need,” says he, “but k-k-keep ’em shut, anyhow.”
We watched the fat man and Mr. Collins. They were headed for our house, all right. I don’t know why, but right there I began to feel that maybe Mark Tidd had stumbled onto something that wasn’t just exactly the way it ought to be. It was hard to believe it, though, for Mr. Collins was such a pleasant, jolly sort of a man, and the fat man looked so good-natured he wouldn’t brush a fly off his bald spot for fear of hurting its feelings. But things did look peculiar. That letter and telegram and the way Mr. Collins seemed to want to meet Uncle Hieronymous made it look as if they were in the woods for something more than a fishing-trip.