“It took a mighty long time to find that rope,” says Collins, sort of cross-like.

“It’s a long rope,” I says. “The longer the rope the longer it takes to find it. I could ’a’ had a short one here half an hour ago.”

The rope was in a coil, which made it easy to throw. I sent it sailing over to Mark, who caught it and went to work making a lasso out of it. He was as deliberate as if we were sitting on a shady porch and not perched out there with the sun beating down on our heads like it wanted to melt us down to butter.

“Hurry it up,” says I, “or there won’t be anything left of me to get down. I’ll melt and run off.”

“When you go to make a l-l-lasso,” says Mark, “make a good one. It’s b-better to take a minnit or two extry than to have the knot s-s-slip and let the dog loose.”

There was something to that, all right—I’d rather be sunburnt than dog-bit. He got it done at last, but then he took his time making just the right-sized noose and coiling the rope so it suited him to a tee. When everything was fixed so he was satisfied he came to the end of the roof and called over to me.

“P-p-poke him with your pole,” says he.

I knew what he wanted—it was to have the dog rear up so he could toss the noose over its body, and I got my pole. The dog seemed to be real interested in me and showed his teeth. When I shoved the pole at him he just rose right up and announced himself, and his announcement wasn’t friendly to me. I jerked back the pole, and he stood on his hind legs to reach it. Then Mark Tidd threw his lasso. The first shot he made it. The noose plopped down over Mr. Doggie’s fore legs and head and was jerked tight around his ribs. You never saw an animal look so surprised as he did just as Mark flopped him over. From the ground he looked around at me sort of surprised and hurt, as much as to say I didn’t play fair. Well, I thought, neither did he. He’d bite, and I wouldn’t.

Mark fastened the rope, and we all got down. I was glad it was a strong rope, for that bulldog acted like he’d have busted one just a little weaker. He did his best, and we couldn’t expect any more of him than that. My! how he pulled and jerked! We were sorry to leave him fastened up, but there wasn’t any other way out of it, so we said good-by to him as politely as we could and went out of the farm-yard.

“Milk,” says Collins, “and pie. Um! Good, weren’t they? Let’s stop at every farm-house we see.”

Jiggins and Mark hadn’t a word to say.

I lagged behind, and pretty soon Mark dropped back with me.

“What d’you think I found in that barn?” I says.

“Rope,” says he. “That’s what you went a-after.”

“I found somethin’ else.”

“Well,” says he, “what was it?”

“Alfred,” I says. “Alfred Bell! Horse! Uncle Hieronymous Alphabet Bell’s horse!”

“What?” he says, so astonished he stopped still in his tracks.

“Sure’s shootin’,” I told him.

“It’s all right, then,” says he. “We don’t need to w-w-worry any more.”

“I should think we ought to worry more than ever.”

“’Course not. He’ll get your note, prob’ly t-to-night. That’ll set him on his guard.”

“What note?” I asked, feeling a sort of sinking in my stomach.

“Why,” says he, “the one you pinned on the stall where he’d be sure to see it.”

Now what do you think of that? Of course that was what I should have done, and it would have ended the battle right there, but I never thought of it. It was so plain to see, Mark thought of course I’d done it. I never was so ashamed in my life as when I had to tell him I didn’t.

“Well,” says he, heaving his fat shoulders, “we know your uncle’s near, anyhow.” Then he sort of sighed. “Too b-b-bad I can’t be everywhere,” he says, and that was all. He never spoke another word of blame. Mark Tidd never wasted much time crying over spilt milk.

“We got to escape t-t-to-night, sure,” says he.

“Yes,” says I.

“And,” says he, “we got to fix it so we d-d-don’t go far to-day. We got to l-lay up the expedition.”

“How?” I asked.

“Dun’no’,” says he. “We’ll wait for a streak of l-l-luck.”

It was noon by the time we got back to the boats, and, naturally, Jiggins and Mark insisted we should have dinner right then and there. Nobody objected much. That took up about an hour, and then we wasted another hour resting and fussing around. But Collins insisted on our getting started at last. We went the same way as before—Jiggins and Mark in the flatboat, and Collins with me in the canoe.

We paddled along, not saying much, for an hour. My back ached, and I wished I was ashore lying under a tree. So did Collins, by the look of him. Nothing happened except turtles flopping into the water off logs, or birds flying overhead. The only noise was the flow of the water, and we were so used to that by this time we didn’t notice it any more. It was like the tick of a clock. Did you ever sit in the room with a clock and try to see if you could hear it tick? Well, just try it sometime. Mostly folks are so accustomed to the sound that it sort of stops being a so............