“What’s in the box?” says I to Mark Tidd next morning, when we had started out toward what he was still calling Castle Wigglesworth.

“Did you f-f-fetch a lunch?” says he.

“No,” says I.

“Didn’t think you would,” says he, “so I f-fetched enough for two.”

I looked at the box. Honest, it reminded me more of a piano box than anything else; anyhow, of a good-sized packing-case.

“Is that full?” says I.

“Couldn’t git in another crumb,” says he.

“How long you plannin’ to stay?”

“Home ’fore supper.”

“And that’s just lunch!” says I.

“Nothin’ but a s-snack,” says he. “Didn’t put in a thing but six pieces of apple p-p-pie and eight ham sandriches and a few fried-cakes, and three-four bananas, and a l-little hunk of cake, and some f-f-fried chicken, and a h-hunk of bread in case we didn’t have enough sandriches, and some b-butter—”

“And a barrel of flour,” says I, “and a crate of eggs, and a crock of baked beans, and a side of bacon—”

“Huh!” says he. “I guess there won’t be much l-left.”

“I wonder,” says I, “if they let our Duke go prancin’ around outdoors, or do they keep him shut up in a dongeon?”

“Can’t never tell about this crowd,” says Mark. “They’re l-liable to do ’most anythin’. I calc’late, though, he’ll be let out some, with a strong guard.”

“If the guard’s around, how’ll we git to talk to him?”

“That’s what we got to f-find out,” says he.

We got to where we could see Mr. Wigglesworth’s house—the castle, I should say—along about nine o’clock. It was a big place with porches and lots of windows and curlicues and gables and wings, and such like. I can’t ever see what one old man ever did with all of it. It was in the middle of a whopping yard that was beginning to look run down. The grass hadn’t been cut as often as it ought to have been, and things was beginning to grow up in the gravel walk. In a month more it would look like one of those houses where nobody lives.

There was a hedge all along the front higher than my head, but when we had crept up close I poked my head through and had a good look. It was a funny kind of a place. Sort of a menagerie, only the animals weren’t alive. There were some deer and a big dog and a cat and a lion—all made out of stone or something.

“Huh!” says I. “If I was goin’ to keep pets I’ll bet they’d be the kind I could teach tricks to. What good ’s a stone dog, I’d like to know.”

“It’s art,” says Mark.

“Oh,” says I, “it is, eh? I thought art was daubin’ paint on a piece of cloth, and then puttin’ a gold frame around it.”

“Anythin’s art,” says Mark, “that hain’t good for nothin’ but to look at.”

“Then,” says I, “I hain’t art.”

“No,” says Mark, “but you come m-mighty clost to it.”

“Where d’you s’pose the Duke is?” says I, changing the subject because I couldn’t see any use talking about art any more. I wasn’t interested in art. “I don’t see no guards,” says I, “and I don’t see the Duke.”

But just then a kid came around the corner of the house. He was just an ordinary-looking kid, though it didn’t seem like he was enjoying himself very much. He sat down alongside the stone dog and propped his head up in his hands and stared at the ground.

“L-lonesome,” says Mark, sympathetic-like.

“Let’s go in and play with him,” says I.

“Sure,” says Mark, sarcastic, “and s-spill the whole mess of beans. What would the Knight With the Black Gauntlets do if he saw us playin’ with that Duke, eh? He wouldn’t suspect any thin’, would he?”

“Let’s git him over here, then,” says I.

“Charm him over l-like a snake does a bird,” says Mark.

But the Duke saved us trouble by getting up and walking over toward the hedge and then following the hedge around toward us. When he was right opposite us Mark whistled low and cautious. The Duke stopped and looked.

“We’re r-right here behind the hedge,” says Mark. “Don’t act like you was t-t-talkin’ to anybody. Come and sit down with your back ag’in’ that l-little mountain-ash tree.”

The boy did like Mark said, acting sort of surprised, but not frightened a bit. I guess he had pretty good nerve, because I figger I’d be some scared to have a voice I couldn’t see, and wasn’t expecting, and didn’t know anything about, go ordering me around.

“Be you Rock?” asked Mark.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“I’m Mark Tidd, and Binney Jenks is with me. We came out to talk to you.”

“You better not let Jethro see you,” says Rock. “What do you want of me?”

“First,” says Mark, “we want to git acquainted. And when we’re acquainted and you git so you can trust us, then we want to see if there hain’t s-somethin’ we can do to help you.”

“I don’t know that I need any help,” says Rock, stiff-like.

“If you don’t,” says Mark, “you’re the f-first feller I ever see that didn’t. For instance, Rock, wouldn’t you l-like to be helped to know what you’re here at Wigglesworth’s for? Eh? Don’t suppose that’s been worryin’ you any. From what you say Jethro don’t want f-folks talkin’ to you. Wouldn’t you like to know why? Do you know the Man With the Black Gloves? And did you know him and Jethro met on Center Line Bridge l-last night and t-talked you over? Why d’you s’pose they did that?”

“Where do you come in?” says Rock.

“Well,” says Mark, “there’s a number of r-reasons for my comin’ in. First, I’m in the newspaper b-business, and I want the news. Second, I kind of like m-monkeyin’ around with mysteries. It’s got to be a habit with me.”

“Hum!” says Rock, and sat quiet a spell, sort of thinking it over. Pretty soon he says: “Well, it can’t do any harm if it doesn’t do any good. I”—his voice sort of wabbled for a second and I hoped he wasn’t going to blubber—“I’ve been mighty lonesome—almost always.”

“That’s p-perty rotten, hain’t it?” says Mark.

“You’d think so,” says Rock, “if you hadn’t ever had any folks at all that you knew about, and had lived with folks that kept you just because somebody paid your board, and had been sent off to schools where the fellows thought you were queer because you didn’t know anything about yourself and never made friends with you.”

“I’ll b-bet I would,” says Mark in a way he has when he’s sorry for anybody. Somehow he manages to make you feel some better right off. “And we—there’s f-four of us—would like to be friends with you if you’ll let us. Honest. And we’d l-like to help you out. We ain’t just s-stickin’ our noses into your business out of curiosity.”

“I wish I could get a look at you,” says Rock, sort of dubious.

Mark chuckled and nudged me. You could see he liked Rock saying that, and afterward he said to me that right there he made up his mind the strange boy was all right. “He ain’t anybody’s fool,” says he, “and if you go trustin’ anybody before you get a good l-look into his eyes, why, then you’ll run a fine chance of bein’ a fool.”

He says to Rock, “Come out and take a l-look, then.”

“I dassent,” says Rock. “Jethro’s watchin’ me all the time, and he ordered me not to go outside the hedge nor to speak to any one.”

“I b’lieve in orders bein’ obeyed when somebody gives ’em that’s got the right to,” says Mark, “but this Jethro hain’t no more right to be b-bossin’ you than I have, which hain’t any at all.”

“I know that,” says Rock, “but if he catches me there won’t be any fun in it.”

“We’ll fix it so’s he won’t catch you,” says Mark. “Wait a minute till I think.”

He studied over it a minute, and then says to Rock: “Hain’t there an arbor back there a c-couple of hunderd feet?”

“Yes,” says Rock.

“Does it back right against the hedge?” says Mark.

Rock looked careful and said it did.

“Good,” says Mark. “You sort of l-loaf back there slow and like you didn’t have anythin’ in mind. We’ll crawl up along the hedge and b-burrow through. ’Tain’t likely we’ll be seen in there.”

“All right,” says Rock, and off he went. Mark watched to see how he did it, and nodded like he was satisfied. “Look,” says he to me. “That kid’s got b-brains.”

Rock did act fine, and not a bit like he had anything on his mind. He just sort of wandered around, but every little bit he managed to get nearer to the arbor. Then he stooped and picked up a stone out of the driveway in front of the house and chucked it at the arbor. Like anybody would, he stopped to see where the stone hit, and then he walked over there slow and poked around the arbor like he was sort of curious to see how it was built.

“Come on,” says Mark, and we snaked it on our stummicks till we was right back of the arbor. I poked my head through, and then wiggled through myself. It wasn’t so easy for Mark, because a hole that would do for me wouldn’t be big enough for one of his legs, but he made it at last, considerable scratched and het up. Then he whistled soft.

In a minute Rock came mooching in, but he didn’t come right in. He stopped in the door and looked at it. It wasn’t a door, but just a sort of open arch, and he shook the side to see if it was strong, and turned around and looked all over the yard. Then he moved back in as slow as molasses, until he figgered it was safe to quit acting and look us over.

“Hello!” says he.

“I’m Mark Tidd,” says Mark, “and this is Binney Jenks.”

Rock didn’t say anything, but just eyed Mark steady, and then me; finally he stuck out his hand and says, “I like your looks.”

“Fine,” says Mark, “then everybody’s satisfied. I kind of like my looks myself. There’s enough of ’em.” Mark would joke about his being fat himself, but if anybody else went to trying it they wanted to look out. “There’s this about us,” says Mark, “we may not be able to do you any good, but it’s s-s-sure we can’t do you any harm.”

“Whether you do me good or harm,” says Rock, “I’m goin’ to tie to you. Just,” says he, “for the sake of bein’ able to say to myself that I’ve got some friends.”

“Bully for you,” says Mark. “Now l-let’s get to business. What’s your whole name?”

“Roscoe Beaumont,” says he.

“How old?”

“Sixteen.”

“Where was you b-born?”

“I don’t know?”

“What was your f-f-father’s first name?”

“I don’t know.”

“What was your m-mother’s name before she was married?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who brought you to Mr. Wigglesworth’s?”

“A man by the name of Pekoe.”

“What?” says Mark.

“Pekoe,” says Rock, and then I remembered that the Man With the Black Gloves had mentioned this Pekoe on the bridge.

“Who is Pekoe?”

“I don’t know,” says Rock.

“How did he happen to f-fetch you here?”

“He came to the school where I was and said my father had told him to come after me the first chance he got and take me to Henry Wigglesworth in Wicksville, Michigan, but he says that was several years ago, and this was the first time he’d been in my part of the United States since then. He said my father was dead, and that he died down in South America.”

“Oh,” says Mark. “I guess your mother must ’a’ died a long time ago”

“When I was a baby,” says Rock.

“And t-t-that’s all you know about yourself?”

“Every single word.”

“Don’t know why you was to be f-f-fetched to Mr. Wigglesworth?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Wigglesworth say when you came?”

“Nothin’. Pekoe he left me outside and went to the house. He was gone half an hour and came back and said I was to go in. Pekoe went on out of the gate and I went in. Jethro met me and fixed up a room for me. I didn’t see Mr. Wigglesworth for a couple of days. He never came out of his room. Guess he was perty sick then. One night when he thought I was asleep he came into my room with a light turned down, and looked at me. I pretended I was asleep, but I managed to get a look at him just the same. He didn’t say a word, but just looked funny—queer. He shook his head and then nodded as much as to say that something was so. After that he went out. I never saw him again.”

“What did you do with the p-p-puzzle he wrote for you the night before he d-died?”

Rock looked sort of surprised that Mark knew about it, but didn’t ask any questions. “I got it in my pocket,” says he. “It don’t mean anythin’. I guess he must have been out of his head.”

“Maybe,” says Mark. “Can’t tell. Mind lettin’ me see it?”

Rock pulled it out and handed it over.

“Huh!” says he. “This d-d-don’t make much sense.”

“I can’t see it makes any,” says Rock.

“If it’s what it may be,” says Mark, “it would take work to f-figger sense out of it. Can I keep it?”

“Yes,” says Rock. “Do you think it really is anything?”

“Lemme study it first. Let’s see, it says, ‘Where pussy looks she walks. 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.’ Some muddle, hain’t it?”

“Clean out of his head when he wrote it,” says I.

“Suppose,” says Mark, “you knew you was d-dyin’, and there was a m-message you wanted to l-leave, and you knew the only man around was ag’in’ you, and you dassent trust him, and you was sick and a leetle queer. Suppose you just had to leave a m-message that nobody could see sense to, but that had sense in it if it was studied out. Then what? Eh? Maybe,” says Mark, waggling his head—“maybe you’d think up a p-p-puzzle like this.”

“Do you think it’s a—what d’you call ’em-a cryptogram?”

“I think,” says Mark, “that there’s a chance of it.”

“What’s a cryptogram?” says I.

“A cipher message,” says Mark.

“Oh,” says I. “Like havin’ each letter in the alphabet a number or some kind of a mark?”

“Yes,” says Mark, “only this hain’t that kind—if it is one.”

“What kind is it?”

“It’s one where the words and letters mean just what they are, but where you have to study out what they tell you to do.”

“Clear as mud,” says I.

“’Tain’t what you’d call plain as p-p-print,” says Mark, “but I’ll study over it.” He shoved it into his inside pocket. “We better be gettin’ along, Rock. We’ll come as often to see you as we can. You come here every day, and maybe we’ll be here or leave a m-message. We’ll l-leave it under that stone. If you have any word for us, why, you leave a note under the stone. Eh?”

“All right,” says Rock. “I hope you’ll come often.”

“We will,” says Mark, “and we’ll keep you posted. You open your ears and eyes and don’t miss anythin’.”

“You bet,” says Rock. “Somehow you got me irit’rested, and sort of lookin’ ahead. I haven’t ever had anything to look ahead to before.”

“Maybe you haven’t now,” says Mark, “so don’t get your heart set on it too much.”

“Good-by,” says Rock. “Look out,” he whispered, sudden. “I see Jethro comin’.”

In about two jerks of a lamb’s tail we were through the hedge and out of sight. Rock sauntered out of the arbor as if nothing had happened, and we saw Jethro stop and talk to him with a scowl. Then we hurried back to town.