Mark was around at my house, whistling for me, before I was through breakfast, so I gobbled down my last four pancakes and hustled out. He had another lunch as big as a trunk, so it was safe to say we wouldn’t starve before noon.

About a half a mile from the Wigglesworth place we saw a buggy coming toward us like the horse was running away, but it wasn’t. A man was driving, and the man was Jethro. When he saw us he pulled up so short he almost snapped his horse’s head off, which was mighty poor driving.

“Hey!” says he. “Seen a kid down that way anywheres?”

“L-lots of ’em,” says Mark.

“Don’t git fresh,” says Jethro.

“I wasn’t,” says Mark. “I was t-t-tellin’ the truth.”

“Did you see a kid,” says Jethro, “that looked like he was runnin’ away?”

“How does a kid l-look that’s runnin’ away?” Mark asked.

Jethro reached for the whip like he had intentions of taking a lick at us, but he changed his mind.

“You know all the kids in Wicksville,” says he. “This was a strange one—one you hain’t never seen before. See sich a one?”

“No,” says Mark. “What’s he runnin’ away for?”

“’Cause he’s a ongrateful little skunk,” says Jethro. “If you see any strange kids sort of hidin’ around, you tell me and I’ll give you a dollar.”

“You’re Mr. Wigglesworth’s man, hain’t you?” says Mark, like he didn’t know.

“Yes,” says Jethro.

“Didn’t know you had a b-boy,” says Mark.

“He wasn’t mine. I was sort of guardian over him.”

“Oh!” says Mark. “And he’s run off and you want us to help you f-find him?”

Jethro didn’t say anything for a minute, but thought it over. Then he says to himself something about kids being all over creation and seeing everything that goes on. After that he says to us:

“You kids make a business of lookin’ for this runaway, and I’ll pay you five dollars if you find him.”

“Why don’t you advertise?” says Mark, and at that Jethro looked sort of startled.

“Look here,” says he, “no advertisin’ goes. This is a secret between you and me. See? You hain’t to talk about it to anybody or you don’t get no five dollars.”

“Mum’s the word,” says Mark.

“You report to me at Wigglesworth’s house,” says Jethro, “if you find out anything.”

“All right,” says Mark, and off drove Jethro. When he was gone Mark turned and winked at me.

“Hired by the enemy,” says he. “Now there’s a way we can get into the Wigglesworth grounds and house any t-t-time we want to without makin’ Jethro suspicious.”

“Sure,” says I, “but what’s this runaway business? Has Rock run off?”

“It l-looks that way,” says Mark,

“What for?” says I.

“How should I know?” says Mark. “Let’s head for the arbor and see if he’s left a l-letter.”

We ducked off the road and slid up the hedge. This time Mark was too interested in what was really happening to do any pretending about dukes or knights, so we just sneaked along like a couple of boys till we got to the arbor, and wriggled through the hedge. There was a letter in the hiding-place.

Dear Friend [the letter said], I’m going away. I don’t like it here because Jethro keeps getting meaner and meaner, and watches me all the time like I was in jail, and won’t let me do anything. I won’t stand it. Jethro isn’t anything to me, and neither is that man with black gloves that comes and scowls at me and asks a lot of questions. I’m going off to China or Florida or the South Sea Islands or some place, so most likely I’ll never see you again.

I don’t know what I was brought to this place for. If anybody has a right to make me stay, why doesn’t he say so? I might as well be in jail. I guess I can earn a living, all right. Maybe I’ll go to Alaska and dig gold. Maybe I’ll write to you some day.

Yours truly,

Rock.

“H’m!” says Mark. “He’s g-goin’ a lot of places, hain’t he?”

“Wisht I was goin’ with him,” says I. “The South Sea Islands sounds fine.”

“But it’s quite a walk,” says Mark, “especially when you think about crossin’ the Pacific Ocean to get there.”

“He’d stow away on a vessel?” says I.

“Shucks!” says he. “Rock won’t get twenty m-miles from Wicksville.”

“Bet he does,” says I.

“Shucks!” says Mark again. “We got to f-find him, and I hain’t goin’ to look in Alaska, nor Florida, either.”

“You hain’t goin’ to give him up to Jethro, be you?”

“That,” says he, “is exactly what I’m goin’ to do.”

“Mark Tidd,” says I, “I wouldn’t ’a’ thought it. For five dollars you’d squeal on this poor kid that’s in a peck of trouble. Well,” says I, getting madder and madder, “you can hunt for him alone. I won’t have anything to do with it. It’s a dirty trick,” says I.

“Binney,” says Mark, “l-look out or you’ll bile out of your shirt. Keep it on,” says he. “How many d-dirty tricks have you seen me play on folks?”

“None,” says I, “but that don’t stop this from bein’ one.”

He just grinned as good-natured as could be.

“You’re foolin’,” says I.

“No,” says he, “I mean it.”

“You’ll give up Rock to them men?”

“Yes,” says he, “if I f-f-find him.”

“Then,” says I, “you and me is through. We been perty good friends, and we’ve done a heap of things together, and I guess I figgered you was almost as great a man as Napoleon Bonaparte, but you hain’t. I hain’t as smart as you,” says I, “but you can bet I don’t go givin’ away any kids that’s in trouble. You go look for him,” says I, “and I’ll go look for him. But I won’t be tellin’ on him if I find him. I’ll warn him,” says I.

“Binney,” says Mark, “you’re a n-noble young man right out of a book. Honest you are. You’re a hero,” says he.

“I hain’t,” says I.

“L-look here, you saphead,” says he, “have some sense. I’m goin’ to git Rock back into Jethro’s hands,” says he, “but not to help Jethro. We got to have him back here. How we g-g-goin’ to find out about him if he’s run away? Tell me that. There’s somethin’ mighty mysterious and important about him. Jethro and the Man With the Black Gloves hain’t d-doin’ all they’re up to just for fun, be they? Not by a jugful. Rock had ought to have known b-better than to go sneakin’ off, but I s’pose he got l-lonesome. Poor kid! But lonesome or not, he’s got to come b-back.”

I felt pretty silly and didn’t think of anything to say.

“Come on,” says Mark.

“Where?” says I.

“To l-look for Rock,” says he.

“Where’ll we look?”

“Well,” says he, “if you was Rock and was r-r-runnin’ away, where’d you go?”

“South Sea Islands,” says I.

He just grunted scornful-like. “Which way would you g-g-go first?”

“Right to the depot,” says I, “and take a train.”

“How’d you pay for your t-ticket? Rock didn’t have a cent.”

That was a facer. “Then I’d steal a ride on a freight,” says I.

“No you wouldn’t,” says he. “You wouldn’t go toward t-town at all. Jethro was watchin’ you close. You had to sneak away in a s-second when he wasn’t lookin’. How’d you m-manage it?”

“Why,” says I, “I’d git near the gate gradual, and then I’d run like the dickens.”

“You wouldn’t, n-n-neither—especial if you wanted to leave a l-letter. I’ll tell you what Rock did. He got hold of p-p-paper and pencil and pocketed ’em. Then he went out in the yard and walked around. You see how he did the other day when we came here first. He hain’t any n-ninny. Well, he’d walk around the yard and after a while he’d c-c-come into this arbor. For t-two reasons. To leave the letter he was goin’ to write, and to get time to hustle off to quite a d-distance before Jethro suspected he was escapin’.”

“How’s that?” says I.

“Why,” says he, “Jethro’d s-see Rock come in here, and he’d think he knew where he was. He wouldn’t come p-pokin’ in to see. So Rock would write his l-letter in a hurry, and scrooch out through the hedge and run. All the t-time Jethro’d be thinkin’ he was right in here. Maybe it would b-be an hour before he’d begin to wonder what Rock was up to so l-long and come in to see. In an hour Rock could move off quite a ways.”

“Sure,” says I, “but where’d he move to?”

“He’d git away from the road,” says Mark. “He wouldn’t take the road t-toward Wicksville, and he wouldn’t go the other way, and he wouldn’t cross the road and go s-south, because somebody might see him when he crossed. There hain’t but one other way for him to go, and that’s n-north toward the r-river and the woods. That’s where he went.”

“Sounds likely,” I says.

“It’s sure,” says he. “He got through the hedge and took a l-look and seen those woods right there. Then he made for ’em lickety-split.”

“When did he go?” says I. “The letter didn’t say.”

“This m-mornin’,” says Mark. “Jethro was all excited. Didn’t he act that way? Like he’d just found out Rock was gone? Sure he did. He acted like he was most r-rattled to pieces, and the first thing he did was to hitch a horse and go f-flyin’ off wild-like, just lookin’ for the sake of lookin’. Anyhow, Jethro hain’t got many brains. Yes, Binney, you can bet Jethro just f-found it out.”

“Then,” says I, “Rock hain’t been gone more ’n an hour or two.”

“That’s how I f-f-figger,” says he.

“Come on, then,” says I, “he’s got quite a start.”

We streaked it along till we got out of the field and into the woods. Maybe you think because Mark Tidd is fat that he can’t move. Well you’d get fooled there, for though there’s enough of him for two boys and their little brother rolled into one, he can get from one place to another about as fast as the next one. I’ve read those rhinoceroses and hippopotamuses in Africa are pretty whopping animals, but that when they get started they can run to beat a horse. I don’t know if it’s so, but Mark Tidd sort of leads me to believe it.

Right in the edge of the woods Mark stopped and picked up a cap.

“There,” says he.

“Rock’s?” says I.

“He was wearin’ it when I saw it l-last,” says he.

“Must ’a’ been in a hurry, not to pick it up.”

“P-panic,” says Mark. “He got to runnin’ across the f-field and then got scairt. It works that way. Once you start to run, the idee gits into your head s-somebody’s chasin’ you hard. I’ll bet Rock thought Jethro was right onto his heels. He didn’t stop for anythin’.”

“Hope he hain’t runnin’ yet,” says I.

“Can’t tell,” says Mark, “but I was right about the way he went, eh?”

You see, when he did a thing that was pretty bright he liked to have folks tell him so. Not that he was what you’d call vain. He wasn’t, and he wasn’t all excited about himself, either, but he was funny that way, and I guess we liked him all the better on account of it. So I told him he was right about it, and that it was a good job of figgering things out. And I was telling him what was so, too, for it was a good job. I wouldn’t have thought out what Rock had done in forty years.

We cut straight through the woods to the river, but when we came to it we stopped, for we didn’t know whether Rock went up-stream or down, or waded across.

“He didn’t wade,” says Mark, “b-because he don’t know this river. It l-looks like it might be deep out there, and the current’s swift. He wouldn’t tackle it.”

“I guess not,” says I, “but which way did he go?”

“That,” says Mark, “is what we got to f-find out. Maybe he didn’t come right down to the river at all, but I think he did.”

“Why?” says I.

“To see if he couldn’t get across. He’d f-feel safer with a river between him and Jethro. But he didn’t cross here. It looks dangerous. Either he went up or down, and I think close to the water, searchin’ for a place to cross.”

“It’s perty soft along here for quite a ways,” says I. “Maybe we can find footprints.”

“You go up,” says Mark, “and I’ll go down. Holler if you f-f-find any thin’.”

I went off like he said, pretending I was an Indian. Maybe a couple of hunderd feet upstream I came on a place where somebody had walked right down to the edge of the river, because there in the mud were tracks filled with water. The place was tramped up quite a bit, and there were tracks leading back away from the river toward the bluff and the trees.

I yelled at Mark and he turned and came.

We followed the tracks part way up the bluff and then they turned up-stream, going along among the trees. Then, all of a sudden, they went up the bank again and turned right back down-stream the way they’d come from, and then they went higher till they came to a rail fence right along the edge of the bluff and among the trees. From that minute we couldn’t find another track.

“Huh!” says Mark, after a couple of minutes. “Rock’s all right. Know what he did?”

“No,” says I. “What?”

“Got on top of the fence and went along. Maybe took off his shoes, because the t-top rail hain’t scratched up anywheres. Figgered he wouldn’t leave any trail. What with his doublin’ back and f-f-forth, we don’t know which way he’s aimin’. Maybe he went up and maybe he went down. He’s a good one, all right.”

“Too good for us,” says I, sort of discouraged.

“Huh!” says Mark, like he didn’t like my saying that very well.

“What’ll we do?” says I.

“Eat,” says he, “and then hunt both ways. Separate like we did below.”

“All right,” says I, and that’s what we did. But not a sign had either of us seen of him when we met at the office just before supper-time. Rock had just naturally up and disappeared.