Mark Tidd, Editor Part 20

Over at the livery we didn't get much satisfaction.

"He hain't never drove in with the same horse twict," says the barn-man.

"Sometimes it's a gray, and sometimes it's a bay, and last time it was a black."

"Didn't recognize any of 'em?" says Mark.

"Nary," says the man.

And there we were, no better off than we'd been before. If those horses had come from anywheres within ten or fifteen miles of Wicksville that barn-man would have known them, so all we learned was that the Man With the Black Gloves must have come farther than that.

"If we could only trace those horses," says Mark.

"Which way did he come from?" says I.

"Good for you, Binney," says Mark. "That'll help some, if we can f-f-find out."

We asked around and found out the man drove in from the west. But there was quite a lot of country west of us, as Mark pointed out, reaching right out to the Pacific Ocean, which was a little matter of a couple of thousand miles.

"'Tain't likely he drove from the Pacific," says I, "and 'tain't likely he drove more 'n twenty-five or thirty mile."

"No," says he, "'tain't.... We might as well give _that_ up for to-night. I expect Jethro and the Man With the Black Gloves are havin' a m-m-meetin' somewheres."

"How about that puzzle?" says I. "The one about where the cat looks and what color is a brick, and all that stuff."

"I hain't l-looked at it," says he. "Let's see what we can make of it."

He took it out of his pocket and we went to his house and sat down by a lamp.

"'Where p.u.s.s.y looks she walks,' it goes," says Mark. "'Thirty and twenty and ten and forty-six. Stop. Ninety degrees in the shade. In. Down.

Across. What color is a brick? Investigate. Believe what tells the truth.' There she is," says he. "If you can see any sense to it, Binney, you've got me beat."

"Let's take it by chunks," says I. "That first sentence, now. 'Where p.u.s.s.y looks she walks.' What's there to that? Anything?"

"Huh!" says he. "Huh!" And then he went to tugging at his ear and scowling. "If we knew what p.u.s.s.y he was talkin' about we might have some idee."

"But we don't," says I.

"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 p.u.s.s.y 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."

"I'll bet you this cat is," says he.

"You've got some notion about it," says I.

"Not much of one," says he, "but I'm guessin', for the sake of argument, that Mr. Wigglesworth wanted somebody to find the cat and s-start there and go to walkin' where p-p-p.u.s.s.y looked. See? That would give the direction to go. Go where she looked. If she l-looked south, walk south.

If she l-looked north, walk north."

"So far so good," says I. "Go on."

"The next looks easy. 'Stop,' it says. Well, 'stop' means to quit w-walkin', don't it?"

"Yes," says I, "but you're leavin' out some-thin'."

"What?" says he.

"Why," says I, "the 'Thirty and twenty and ten and forty-six.'"

"To be sure," says he. He thought some more, and so did I.

"Maybe," says I, "them figures means letters of the alphabet. A would be 1, and B would be 2, and so on. Let's try it."

We did, but nothing came of it. It didn't make a word of sense.

"'Tain't that," says Mark, "but I'll tell you what I b-b-b'lieve it _is_."

"What?" says I.

"Feet," says he.

"Whose feet?" says I.

"Feet," says he, sharp-like. "Measure. Twelve-inch feet."

"Oh," says I.

"Yes," says he, his cheeks flus.h.i.+ng a little and his eyes getting all s.h.i.+ny with excitement. "That must be it. It means to start where the cat is and walk where she looks thirty and twenty and ten and forty-six feet. How many's t-that?"

"Thirty and twenty's fifty, and ten is sixty and forty-six is a hunderd and six," says I.

"Good enough," says he. "We're so far in no time at all. We f-find p.u.s.s.y, makin' sure we got the _right_ p.u.s.s.y, and we take note of where she's l-lookin' and we walk that way a hunderd and six f-feet.... Then what do we do?" says he, with a grin.