“Somebody’s goin’ to be put to bed,” says I, “but it won’t be with mumps.”
He sort of chuckled. “Plunk,” says he, in a whisper, “we got to git out of here. That man Wiggamore’s just gone off up the street with Jason Barnes that owns the land next above our m-m-mill, and we got to f-f-find out what they’re talkin’ about, if we kin.” Then he says, out loud, “Now come along like a s-s-sensible father,” says he. “Come on.”
I started along with him, and the crowd hooted and laughed, but Mrs. Coots was as serious as ever and tagged along with us.
“I got to see him shut up,” she says. “Runnin’ at large he’s a danger to the community.”
“Scoot!” says Mark, and he give me a little shove.
You can believe I scooted. If you ever tried to run pushing a doll-cart in front of you, you know what a time I had. The thing kept wabbling and trying to go off sideways. Seemed like it was alive. But I made good time. I don’t reckon Mrs. Coots could have caught me if she was riding on a race-horse.
I made tracks for the Baptist church, and jumped into a dark corner and stood still. Pretty soon Mark came lumbering past and I called to him. He stopped.
“She’s give up the c-c-chase,” says he; “and now l-let’s git after Wiggamore. He’s got quite a start.”
“I’m willin’,” says I. “But I’m goin’ to git even with Mrs. Coots or bust.”