Mark Tidd, Editor Part 37

"Why?"

"'Cause his father was down with some kind of sickness in Central America and figgered he was goin' to die. The letter was two months old when I got it. It jest said he was goin' to die, and to get his son and take him to Henry Wigglesworth in Wicksville."

"What made his father send you?" Mark says.

"Because him and me was pals in lots of places, and because he knew he could trust me to do what he asked. We been in a lot of pinches together."

"Why was you to t-t-take Rock to Mr. Wigglesworth?"

"I dunno. Big Rock never told me."

"Is Rock's father's n-n-name Rock, too?"

"Yes."

"What else?"

"Rock Armitage," says Pekoe.

"Huh!" says Mark in a sort of disappointed tone. Then in a second he says: "What made you come back again? And how did the Man With the Black Gloves know you was comin' so as to l-l-lay for you?"

"I come back because-"

Just then Rock began to cough like the mischief, and we da.s.sent stop, but rushed right to the stairs. Rock looked up and motioned us back, and we could hear Jethro coming up the stairs from the ground floor. Rock hadn't signaled us quick enough so we could get down, and there we were, caught on the top floor of that house without any chance I could see but what we'd be caught by Jethro, and then there'd be a fine mess of fish.

But Mark he never stopped to think. He just grabbed my arm and hauled me back along the hall. We stopped back from the stairs and heard Jethro ask Rock what he was doing there, and Rock said he was just going to his room for something. And then Jethro started up to the third floor.

Well, if he got to the top of those stairs he'd see us, for there wasn't anything to hide us. Mark reached out quick and tried a door. It wasn't locked, thank goodness, and he jerked it open and in we popped. It was a stairway leading up to the attic or something, and you'd better believe we went up some fast and considerable quiet.

"Huh!" I whispered when we were up there. "We're in a lovely boat now.

Four stories up."

"I dunno," says Mark. "It might be worse."

"Yes," says I, "we might be up _eight_ stories."

"Anyhow," says he, "we're in the h-h-house."

"Yes," says I, "and like to stay in it."

CHAPTER XIX

We found out we were in a big attic that covered the whole of the house.

Part of it was floored over and part of it was just joists with the lath and plaster showing on the under side. It looked as if there was about an acre in it, and it was full of angles and brick chimneys and little, funny-shaped windows, and rubbish, and trunks and goodness knows what-except things to eat.

We were there, and no chance of getting out right away, so the idea of getting something to eat was one that came pretty quick. It went about as soon as it came.

"Guess we'll have to gnaw air," says I, kind of down-hearted.

"L-l-lucky," says Mark, "if Jethro don't gnaw us."

"What'll Plunk and Tallow do when we don't show up?"

"Nothin', I hope," says Mark. "Rock'll f-find some way to tell 'em we're penned up here, and I guess they'll have sense enough to do n-nothin'

but hang around to see what t-turns up."

"They'll hang around," says I. "You couldn't drive 'em away. Don't think they'd sneak off and leave us, do you?"

"Not them," says Mark, and the way he said it would have sounded pretty good to Tallow and Plunk if they had heard. It showed that Mark _knew_ them, and was sure he could depend on them no matter what happened.

"L-let's rummage around," says Mark.

We stirred things up good, because Mark said you never could tell what you were going to find in an attic, and if there was anything there to throw any light on Rock's affairs, why, we wanted to know it. There were trunks and boxes of old clothes, and busted chairs, and piles of old magazines and books, and hats, and shoes. You could find 'most anything you didn't want there, but not much you did want, unless you was figuring on dressing up for a masquerade.

Over in a corner, though, I found a little rocking-chair for a baby, and what was left of a doll's house and some busted toys.

"Look here," says I. "I wonder what Mr. Wigglesworth was doin' with these kid things. Didn't have any that I ever heard of."

"No," says Mark, but his eyes began to s.h.i.+ne like everything. "Not that we heard of. Maybe, Binney, there's n-n-nothin' to this, but maybe it's the m-most important thing we've run onto in this whole business."

"How?" says I.

"B-because," says he, "it makes it l-look as if what I was hopin' was so might be so."

"Um!" says I. "How int'restin'."

Well, we kept on digging into things, and after a while Mark hauled out one of those old-fas.h.i.+oned photograph-alb.u.ms that fasten with a bra.s.s catch in front. It wasn't a big plush one, like we got to home on the center-table, but a little leather one about six inches long and four wide and two thick. We went over by a window and looked through it. My!

but it was comical-the clothes folks used to wear, and the faces they wore when they went to have their pictures taken!

We looked at every picture careful. Along at the front we recognized Mr.

Wigglesworth when he was a young man, with Burnside whiskers and funny pants, and his hair all plastered down in front and combed up on the side. After a few pages was another picture of a young woman sitting on a rock with Mr. Wigglesworth standing behind her with his hand on her shoulder.

"Look at that!" says Mark, excited as a bantam rooster. "He was married.

See? B-b-bet that p-picture was taken on their weddin' trip. It's a weddin'-trip-lookin' picture," says he.

"Yes," says I, "it sure looks foolish."

"Hum!" says he. "This is important."

"Good," says I.

But the next picture-that was what startled both of us, for-maybe you won't believe it-but it was the Man With the Black Gloves, only about twenty years younger than he is, and not wearing the gloves, but just as mean and ornery-looking then as he is now.

"There," says Mark, "I g-guess when we leave here we t-take this alb.u.m along."