Mark Tidd, Editor Part 28

When he was gone Mark says to Rock, "Now you s-s-see why we wanted to f-fetch you back? We got the job w-watchin' you, and we can be with you all we want, and we can s-s-snoop around this place as much as we want to. And I can tell you I've got a heap of snoopin' to do. And we can see to it that nothin' happens to you, for one of us will be here all the time."

"Mark Tidd," says Rock, "you're all right. You've got more brains in your little finger than I have in my head."

Mark sort of threw up his head and pushed out his chest, and his little eyes just _shone_, he was so tickled. There's nothing that pleases him like getting praised when he knows it's coming to him.

"You kids go off and p-p-play somethin'," says he. "I want to nose around this p-place to see if I can make any thin' out of that writin'

Mr. Wigglesworth left. Seems to me l-like it must have meant this p-place. Don't it to you?"

"Why?" says I.

"Because," says he, "there don't seem to be anythin' about the writin'

to indicate any other p-place. This was the p-place he was always at.

This was where Rock was, and the w-writin' concerns Rock, you can bet on that. What I got to do is f-find a cat that's always lookin' in one d-direction, and then f-figger on from there."

"Sure," says I, "you just find me a cat that don't never turn her head, and I'll dig up a bag of gold right under her feet. The cats I know hain't used to actin' jest like that. Sometimes they move; anyways, they wiggle their ears. And the cat 'u'd _starve_," says I. "How could a cat live that didn't move around any?"

"Binney," says he, slow-like, "if you had as m-many brains in your head as you got _words_ you'd be a wonder," and off he went, holding all three of his chins up in the air, he was so disgusted.

"He's a funny one, isn't he?" says Rock, looking after him, "but I'll bet he's more fun than any kid I ever saw."

"You bet he is," says I.

"What d'you s'pose he's tryin' to find?" says Rock. "It's sure he doesn't expect to discover a _cat_ that always sits still and looks right in one direction. He's got too much sense for that."

"Mostly," says I, "you don't get on to what Mark Tidd is up to until he's done it."

"And then," says Tallow, "sometimes you wisht you hadn't. He'd rather play a joke on somebody than do anything else in the world except think up some business scheme. I'll bet he gets rich some day. Yes, sir, I'll bet he gets richer than his pa."

"Is his father rich?" says Rock.

"Got billions," says Tallow, "and Mark got 'em for him, too. We helped some, but Mark did most of it. Mark's father is a inventor, and some men stole his turbine, and we fellers got it back again."

"Say," says I, "let's pester him a little to see what he'll do-about that cat, I mean."

"Better not," says Tallow.

"Go on," says Plunk. "Maybe we can get the best of him for once. Tell you what let's do. Let's make up a poem about a cat that don't move, and recite it to him. It'll tease him to beat the band, because he hates poetry."

"Go ahead," says I. "I hain't no poet. It keeps me busy talkin' ordinary grammar."

"Keeps you more 'n busy," says Plunk. "If I talked as bad grammar as you do I'd git special lessons off'n the teacher."

"Huh!" says I. "I guess I make folks understand what I'm talkin' about, anyhow. Git at that poem."

They sat still, thinking about it, and pretty soon Tallow says, "How'd this do for a first line?

"There was a boy and he was fat.

He went and hunted for a cat."

"Fine," says I. "Go ahead."

After a while Plunk scratched around in his head and dug up another line:

"It was a cat that didn't stir, And probably it didn't purr."

"Rotten," says I, "but what can you expect of sich a crowd?"

"See what _you_ can do, then," says Plunk. "All right," says I. "Listen to this:

"That was a funny kind of cat; The boy was talking through his hat."

"Good stuff," says Tallow. "Best yet. Be careful, Binney, or you'll git somethin' printed if you don't watch out."

"Here he comes," says Rock, and, sure enough, there was Mark coming toward us slow, waddling like a duck just before Thanksgiving. He came and sat down without saying a word, and anybody could see he was discouraged. Why, discouragement just oozed out of him. We snickered.

"Say, Mark," says I, "we been improvin' our time while you was gone. We made up a poem. Like to hear it?"

"Go ahead," says he. "I guess I can s-s-stand 'most any thin' to-day."

"Here it is," says I:

"There was a boy and he was fat.

He went and hunted for a cat.

It was a cat that didn't stir, And probably it didn't purr.

That was a funny kind of cat; The boy was talking through his hat."

Mark didn't say anything for a couple of minutes, and we knew we had him. At last we had stung him good, and he couldn't think of anything to say. I was that tickled I reached over and poked Tallow in the ribs.

Mark looked at me sad-like, and then says: "I got a l-l-little to add to that poem. How's this?

"He h-hunted for it all alone, Because the f-f-fellers' heads was bone, And found a cat made out of _s-stone_!"

He almost yelled that last word, and looked so tickled and excited I knew in a second that he had the best of us again.

"What's that?" says I.

"Come and see," says he, and up we got and followed him. He led us down the yard a piece where we could see all those carved animals, and then he took us around a clump of bushes and pointed down. There was a _cat_!

It was a stone cat.

"Guess she don't move frequent, d-does she?" says he.

"For cat's sake!" says Tallow.

Mark grinned. "You said it t-that time. 'The boy was talkin' through his hat,'" he quoted from our poem. "Maybe he was-and maybe not. I was lookin' for somethin' like this. Now, how about cats that don't stir, eh? Guess this cat looks the same way all the time. Don't it?"

"Mark," says I, "how did you ever think of it?"

"It _had_ to be this kind of a c-c-cat," says he; "that was p-plain enough."