After supper we met at the office, though I’m bound to say I wasn’t tickled to death with the prospect of what was ahead.

“Mark,” says I, “here we’re goin’ out to Center Line Bridge to meddle with somethin’ that don’t concern us. It ’u’d serve us right if this Man With the Black Gloves caught us and gave us the larrupin’ of our lives.”

“’Tis our b-business,” says Mark. “Anythin’ that’s suspicious is the business of a newspaper man. There’s news in it.... And b-besides I figger it’s our duty to do.”

When Mark Tidd starts talking about duty you might as well lay down and roll over. You couldn’t change his mind with a ton of giant powder.

“Duty?” says I. “How?”

“Well,” says he, “as citizens. Maybe these f-fellers are plannin’ somethin’ that ought to be stopped, and there hain’t anybody to stop it but us, b-because nobody else suspects ’em.”

“All right,” says I. “I expect I can run as fast as any of you.”

“Besides,” says Mark, “the man the Man With the Black Gloves is g-goin’ to meet is named Jethro.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” I says.

“Heaps,” says Mark, and then shut up like a clam. That’s the way with him. Sometimes he gets it into his head to be mysterious and to keep his notions shut up under his hat. Well, when he does you might as well forget them, for he’s as close-mouthed as a bulldog with a tramp’s pants in his teeth.

“Come on, then,” says I, “let’s get it over.”

It was a half-hour’s walk to the bridge, but before we got within a quarter of a mile of it Mark halted us.

“We can’t go bangin’ up t-t-there with a brass b-band,” says he. “There wouldn’t be any meetin’. We got to come the Indian.”

“Crawl a quarter of a mile through witch-hazel and swamp on our bellies, I expect,” says I.

“There hain’t any law compellin’ you to come, Binney,” says Mark, “but I f-figgered you wouldn’t want to miss anythin’.”

“I don’t,” says I, “not even a good lickin’, which most likely we’ll git. You hain’t got any idea, Mark,” says I, “how I love a good lickin’.”

He laughed and says, “Say, Binney, anybody’d think you was a million years old. Hain’t there any f-f-fun in you? Here’s a reg’lar game to p-play that beats any game you can think up, and we can add to it by p-pretendin’.” He was the greatest fellow for pretending I ever saw, and when he was at it he almost had you believing that what he made believe was so.

“Go on,” says I, “start up your game. I’ll be taggin’ right on behind.”

“All right,” says he. “Us four kids are the f-f-faithful followers of a young Duke. This young Duke has disappeared, and we kind of figger his enemy, the Knight With the Black Gauntlets, has captured him and is holdin’ him for r-ransom. See? But we don’t know where. But our scouts tell us the Knight With the Black Gauntlets is close to our castle and we set out to watch him to see if we can’t rescue the Duke—and here we be. We know our enemy’s ahead somewheres, and we want to git clost to him to watch him and overhear what he s-says, if he says anythin’. Most likely the Duke will make us all knights if we rescue him, and I’ve always sort of hankered to be a knight.”

“Me too,” says Plunk. “Them knights sure had a circus, ridin’ around with lances and bustin’ up tournaments and lickin’ everybody they met by slammin’ ’em over the head with an iron mallet or pokin’ ’em off a horse with a lance. That there Richard Cur the Lion was the best one, eh? Say, Mark, what did they call him Cur the Lion for? Curs and lions hain’t got much in common.”

“’Tain’t Cur,” says Mark, “though it does s-sound like it. You spell it C-o-e-u-r. The whole thing means ‘of the Lion Heart.’”

“Fine,” says Plunk. “That’s a bully name.”

“If you want a name,” says I, “I’ll give you one.”

“What?” says he.

“Plunk of the Wooden Head,” says I, because I was sort of disgusted.

“And I’ll g-give you one,” says Mark. “It’s Binney of the Complainin’ Tongue.”

I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say, and I might have known better, in the first place, than to go fooling with a scheme of Mark’s and making fun of it. So I shut up and was glad to.

“Now,” says Mark, “I f-figger that Knight’ll stop clost to the bridge that crosses the river dividin’ his lands from ourn. Maybe there’ll be a m-messenger a-waitin’ there for him. It’s our business to hear what’s said, because a word may be d-dropped that’ll show us where he’s imprisoned our master, the Duke.”

“How’ll we manage it?” says Tallow.

“Divide up,” says Mark. “You two men-at-arms, Tallow and Plunk, sneak over and come to the b-bridge from the left side of the road. There’s thick alders growin’ right there and you can scrooch down in ’em. Binney and I will t-tackle the job from the right. Then, if one p-party’s discovered and s-slain, the other party’s got a chance to come through alive and rescue the Duke.”

“Huh!” says I. “I know which party I hope gits slain, if anybody does, and I hain’t one of it.”

We started off then, Mark and I going to the right, and Tallow and Plunk cutting off through the woods to the left.

“We want to get there g-good and early,” says Mark, “so as to get all p-placed and settled before the Knight with the Black Gauntlets comes.”

“All right,” says I. “Maybe I can’t think as fast as you can, but I can make my legs go faster.”

So off we went, for a while going as fast as we could plug, then, when we were getting so near that a man on the bridge might hear us, Mark made me stop hurrying and crawl.

“Maybe they got g-guards out,” says he, “and we can’t take any chances.”

So we crawled the rest of the way, dodging from one tree to another and getting mud on our knees and tearing holes in our pants. But it was fun. I was beginning to get excited myself, and I believe I really got to worrying about the young Duke that was held a captive. Yes, sir, I felt pretty bad about the hole he had got himself into, and says to Mark I hoped they gave him enough to eat and treated him decent.

That’s how persuading Mark is. He really gets you to think things are happening that he’s only pretending about.

Anyhow, we got to the bridge, or rather so close to it we could look it over careful and see if anybody was there. But not a soul was in sight.

“’Tain’t safe,” says Mark, “even if it looks l-like it was. They may be in ambush along the road. We got to f-find out.”

We kept on crawling until we were sure nobody was on our side of the bridge anywheres. Then Mark made us wade the river, which was only about up to our knees in spots, to be sure nobody was hid on the other side. It would have been fine if there hadn’t been a hole there and if I hadn’t stepped in it. But I did, and fell down and floundered around and let out a yell.

“Hey!” Mark whispered. “Shut up! Want to git a l-lance through your stummick?”

“Don’t expect a feller to drownd without makin’ a noise, do you?” says I. “I notice you didn’t fall into any holes.”

“No,” says he, with a grin. “I had you walk first so if there was one you’d sort of warn me of it.”

“Which I done,” says I, feeling pretty chilly and not what you could call comfortable.

“You’ve been wet before,” says he, “and it didn’t hurt you.”

“Probably,” says I, “it won’t hurt me this time, but that hain’t no reason I should be happy about it.”

We didn’t say any more until we’d scouted out the other side of the bridge and found that none of the Knight’s men were hidden there.

“Now,” says Mark, “we want to hide ourselves so’s we can overhear what they s-s-say. Let’s f-find a good place.”

It was an old wooden bridge, and when you looked up at it from below you made up your mind that it had better be fixed some time before long, for you could see through cracks and splits and broken boards right up to the sky.

“What’s the matter,” says I, “with hidin’ down under the bridge, right at the end? Nobody’ll look there, and we can sit on the bank in the mud and be comfortable. I love to sit in the mud,” says I.

“Good idee,” says Mark. “Fine idee. We can hear p-plain, and not one chance in a hunderd of bein’ seen.”

Under we got and settled there as comfortable as was possible. I don’t know if you ever sat in black mud under an old bridge with your clothes dripping and the evening chilly, but if you did, and got any fun out of it, why then, you are better at enjoying yourself than I am. My teeth got to chattering.

“Keep s-still,” says Mark.

“You’ll have to hold my jaw if you want me to,” says I. “The cold makes it wiggle and rattle my teeth.”

“Stuff your cap in your mouth,” says he, which I did. Oh, it was a pleasant party, what with chewing on an old cap and all that!

“Wonder if Tallow and Plunk are on deck,” says I.

“Sure,” says he; “you can always d-d-depend on them.”

“Meanin’,” says I, and feeling sort of peevish, “that you can’t depend on me.”

“You n-notice,” says he, “that I picked you to come with me, don’t you?”

That made me feel pretty good, like praise always does make a fellow, even if he don’t deserve it, and after that the cold wasn’t so chilly nor my clothes so clammy on my back.

After about half an hour, which seemed like a week, we heard a horse coming. It stopped at the end of the bridge and a man got out. He whistled, but nobody answered, and the man started to pacing up and down from one end of the bridge to the other. Then in another ten minutes up came another rig, and a man got out of it.

“I been waitin’ for you,” says the first man.

“Huh!” says the second, and we recognized him as the Man With the Black Gloves, or the Knight With the Black Gauntlets, like he was promoted to be to-night.

“Well?” he says in a minute.

“Everythin’s all right,” said the first man. “Rock don’t remember nothin’ he hadn’t ought to, ’cause I’ve questioned him mighty close. Nobody’s been sneakin’ around to see him, though a lot of Jakes have drove by to stare at him since them kids had that piece in the paper.”

“Wigglesworth didn’t leave any writing?” says the Knight.

“Not what you’d call writin’. Though he might. Acted toward the last like he was suspicious of me. Didn’t let on nothin’ to me, and kept to himself. One night he was writin’ in the library, but what he wrote I dunno. Maybe it was letters. He didn’t leave anythin’ around. That is, except a puzzle or somethin’ he wrote out for Rock.”

“Puzzle,” says the Knight.

“Yes,” says the first man, “puzzle, or else he’d gone crazy.”

“What become of it?”

“Rock’s got it.”

“Thought I said to grab every bit of writing you could get your hands on.”

“This didn’t amount to nothin’,” said the man.

“You aren’t on the job to think, but to do what you’re told.”

“Well, I done it,” says the man; “anyhow I made a copy of it, and give the old man’s writin’ to the kid.”

“Let’s have it,” says the Knight.

He read it, or I guess that’s what he was doing, because he was still awhile. Then he grunted, disgusted-like.

“No sense to it,” says he.

“Not a mite,” says the other man.

“But there may be,” says the Knight.

“Shucks!” says the man.

“Wigglesworth was queer—and suspicious. Look how he acted toward the boy. Maybe he made a writing. Seems like he must have. Didn’t tell anybody, so far as I can find out. That’s certain, I guess. But he must have written. Must have. And we’ve got to find it. Never can tell when a writing will pop up just when it will send you higher than a kite.”

“I’ve looked till my eyes is wore out.”

“Look some more,” says the Knight.

“Where’s Pekoe?”

“Nobody knows. Gone off to South America or India or the North Pole again, likely. He won’t bother us.”

“May some day.”

“Don’t believe he knows enough about things. If he had he’d hung around.”

And right there Tallow Martin let out a sneeze. I knew it was Tallow, because there ain’t a man, woman, child, horse, cow, or mule in Wicksville that could enter a sneezing match with him and even get second prize. Tallow would get all the prizes if there was a dozen.

“What’s that?” says the Knight.

“Sneeze,” says the other man.

“Somebody’s around here—listening,” says the Knight. “It came from that way. Quick! After them.”

Off they went, tearing into the bushes, and we could hear Plunk and Tallow get up and flounder away. Mark was disgusted.

“Tallow,” says he, “ought to train his nose to be quiet, or sell it to a lighthouse for a foghorn. Now the fat’s in the f-f-fire.”

“They’ll never catch those kids,” says I.

“Not likely to,” says he, “but they’ll be on their guard now. They know somebody was listenin’—and if somebody was l-listenin’ it means somebody was suspicious of ’em.”

“Looks that way,” says I, “but what do we suspect ’em of?”

“I don’t know,” says he, “but it’s somethin’ to do with Mr. Wigglesworth and that kid.”

“Sure,” says I, “but let’s not worry about that right now. Let’s make tracks while they’re gone.”

“Can’t leave Plunk and Tallow,” says he. “Maybe they n-n-need help.”

That was Mark all over. He’d stick to you like a corn-plaster, and he wouldn’t quit sticking till he’d got you out of any fix you were in. Of course I couldn’t go off, either, and not know what had happened, so we climbed out of the mud and started into the woods after the men.

We didn’t go far, though, before we heard them coming back, and laid down behind some bushes till they were past. They didn’t have any captives, so we knew the kids were safe.

“Well,” says Mark, when it was safe to move along again, “we know one thing. We know where our master, the Duke, is imprisoned.”

“Oh,” says I, “do we?”

“Yes,” says he, “he’s shut up in Castle Wigglesworth, and they won’t l-let him use his own name, but call him Rock. The next thing on our program is to t-t-try to get a chance to talk to him and l-look over the lay of the land.”

We went on back to the printing-office as quick as we could, and Plunk and Tallow were there looking pretty scratched up and dilapidated, and frightened a little, I guess. Mark didn’t say a word about Tallow’s sneezing, though Tallow looked pretty guilty. But Mark knew Tallow didn’t do it on purpose, and he never lit into a fellow much, anyhow. If you did something that was wooden-headed he might look at you so you’d wish the floor would open up and let you through, but that would be all. Oh, he was a bully fellow to go into things with, all right.

“Now,” says he, “we b-better get to bed. To-morrow Binney and I are goin’ to Wigglesworth Castle to t-try to see the Duke and to get a squint at that p-puzzle paper he’s got. Maybe there’s somethin’ important in it. Bet there is.”

And we all headed for home.