It looked pretty much to me like we were giving up—sort of deserting the
ship. There we had been where we could actually _see_ uncle and Jiggins
and Collins, and we were going some place else. It seemed as if getting
down off that roof and losing sight of them was about the same thing as
running away. But then I looked at Mark. His chin stuck out like the
cow-catcher on an engine. If I was going to draw a picture of
Determination I’d have it look just like Mark did then. That was a
little comfort.
“We got to hurry,” says I, sort of nervous-like.
“Hurry where?” says Mark, with just the commencement of a grin.
Well, there I was. I hadn’t any more idea what we ought to do than the
man in the moon.
Mark started through the yard for the street. We climbed the first fence
and that took us back of a hardware store—an area full of boxes and
crates and all sorts of rubbish. We had to pick our way up close to the
building. As we passed the door I saw Mark stop and stoop down. When he
got up there was a coil of old half-inch rope in his hands—and he was
grinning. I could see in a minnit he’d got his idea.
“Wait a s-s-second,” says he, and he hurried into the store and up to a
man standing by the counter.
“L-l-lemme take this r-rope,” he stuttered, all out of breath. “I need
it b-bad. Bring it back s-s-sure.” You never heard such stuttering!
“Say that over ag’in, young feller,” says the man.
“I want to b-b-borrow this rope,” spluttered Mark, getting sort of mad.
The man grinned. “That there’s a perty valuable rope,” he said. “I
dun’no’s I got a more valuable piece’n that. I’m right down proud of
that rope, I am. Don’t no-ways calc’late to lose it. Got any security,
young feller?”
In a second Mark had out his watch, snapped it off his chain, and laid
it down on the counter.
“There,” says he, and fairly ran out of the store with the rope in his
hand. He went out the front door, and I after him.
“Now what?” I asked.
He didn’t say a word, but just began coiling that rope as careful as if
it was made of solid gold and he was afraid of scratching it. And all
the time Uncle Hieronymous was in that room with those two men. By this
time, maybe, they had his mine all taken away from him.
“Hurry!” says I. “Hurry! Hurry!”
“Don’t do to h-hurry too much,” says he. “Slow and careful. Take no
chances.”
By this time his rope was all coiled, and he began making a little loop
in one end—a little loop about two inches long.
“What’s that?” I asked, too anxious to keep still. It made me almost
crazy to see him so deliberate.
He didn’t answer, but just doubled the rope a ways from the noose and
shoved it through the little loop. Then I saw. He was making a lasso.
It sort of disgusted me, for I couldn’t see what good in the world a
lasso could do, but he seemed satisfied. He made his noose just the
right size to suit him and stretched it and put his foot in it to pull
out all the crinkles.
“There,” says he, just like he’d been trying to invent an airship and it
had turned out to suit him. “Now,” says he to me, “listen c-careful and
don’t make any mistakes.”
“Go ahead,” says I.
“We’re going to the st-st-stairs where Collins is,” says he. “When we
g-get there you start to go up. Stamp with your feet and m-make a lot of
noise. As soon as Collins sees you, begin to m-make fun of him. Get him
mad! Get him awful mad!”
“Fine!” says I. “And let him catch me and give me a wallopin’, too, I
expect.”
“No,” says Mark. “Make him ch-ch-chase you.”
“Great!” I says, sarcastic-like.
“Make him chase you,” he repeated, “and be sure to turn this way.
Remember, turn this way. Be sure he’s so mad he’ll chase you.”
“Well,” says I, “I don’t see any sense to it, but maybe you know what
you’re up to with your chases and your lasso and one thing and another.
Here goes!”
I started for the stairs, leaving Mark standing close to a
telephone-pole with his lasso in his hand. When I turned in the doorway
I saw Collins at the head of the stairs with his back turned. I stamped
on the first step. Quick as a wink he turned around.
“Git out of there,” says he.
“Peanuts,” says I, aggravating-like, and took another step up.
“Binney,” says Collins, “don’t go making any monkey-shines. Go on away
before I have to spank you.”
“Huh!” I says. “Spank! A-a-aw!”
He began to look cross, and I went up two more steps, ready, you can
bet, to turn and run just the minnit he looked like he was after me.
“Don’t be sassy, Binney,” Collins says. “It isn’t becoming to small
boys.”
I went up another step. He started to come down, but not fast. I could
see he wasn’t real good and mad yet, so I didn’t run. Then I had an idea
myself. It isn’t very often I get one, so I want credit for this. I
remembered that I had a few bits of gravel in my pocket—round pebbles
I’d figured on using some day in my sling-shot. I reached for one and
shot it at Collins just like you shoot a marble. It went whizz past his
ear.
Now that would make anybody mad, wouldn’t it—to have a kid shooting
pebbles at him? He said something sharp. I shot another pebble, and it
hit his hat. At that he let out a yell—a _mad_ yell—and jumped for me.
Maybe you think I didn’t get down those stairs quick. I don’t remember
touching my feet at all. Seems like I made it in one leap and lit
running. Collins was right at my heels, and I could almost feel his hand
on my collar. I was scairt, all right, but I didn’t forget to turn the
way Mark told me to. In a second I scudded past him where he stood by
the telephone-pole holding his lasso. As I passed I saw him begin to
twirl the noose.
Then I heard Collins say something that sounded like, “Wo-oo-of!” only
louder and more surprised; and there was a scrape and a scuffle. I
grabbed a hitching-post and stopped sudden. There was Collins in a heap
on the sidewalk, with the lasso around his body and one arm, and Mark
giving the rope a turn around his post and pulling like all-git-out.
“Q-quick!” he stuttered. “Up-stairs.”
I understood then and dived for the stairway. Mark gave another jerk on
the lasso, sprawling Collins over, and came after me. Up we went, making
a clatter like a runaway team crossing a wooden bridge. We were pretty
nearly at the top before Collins got loose and reached the bottom.
The way was clear before us to the door of the lawyer’s office where
Uncle Hieronymous was, but Collins was coming fast. He came up so fast
his feet on the stairs sounded like he was playing a snare-drum. But he
couldn’t catch us. There was only thirty feet to go, and it was plain
running. We ran!
And then! When we were not more than six feet from that door it opened
and out stepped Jiggins!
Maybe he’d heard the racket, maybe he wanted a breath of air—I don’t
know what brought him, but there he was. He was no slow thinker, either.
One glance showed him what was up, showed him Collins’s head just coming
into sight. His mouth set, and he plunged for Mark, who was at my side,
made a grab at him with one hand and at me with the other.
He got Mark, but missed me. I stopped up and then dove at his legs just
like I was playing football. He and Mark went down with a bang, and
Collins, who was coming a mile a minute, went sprawling over them. In
the scrimmage I got hold of one leg of Jiggins’s and one of Collins’s
and held on. I couldn’t see, because somebody rolled on top of me.
Next thing I knew I heard something rip, and saw Mark squirm and roll
away toward the door. He was heavy and fat, but you should have seen how
he got to his feet! Then he fairly dived at the door. It banged open,
and he went down, rolling over and over on the floor right up to Uncle
Hieronymous’s feet.
[Illustration: HE WENT DOWN, ROLLING OVER AND OVER RIGHT UP TO UNCLE
HIERONYMOUS’S FEET]
Uncle Hieronymous yelled, “Woosh!” frightened-like, and jumped up on his
feet.
Mark didn’t wait to get up; he just laid there and hollered as loud as
he could.
“Don’t s-s-sell it! Don’t have anything to d-do with ’em. They’re—”
At that Collins, mad as the very dickens, got into the room and started
to go for Mark. Uncle didn’t know very clear what was going on, but he
did know there was a man looking like he didn’t mean anything friendly
to a boy, so what does he do but step spry over Mark and take holt of
Collins. I hadn’t any idea uncle was so strong. Why, he put his hands
under Collins’s arms and just naturally lifted him up into the air.
“Stiddy! Stiddy, there!” he says, mild-like. “What’s this here, eh?
What’s all this rollin’ and plungin’ and rampagin’ around?” He sort of
grinned friendly into Collins’s face, still holdin’ him in the air.
By that time Mark was up, and I got into the room, with Jiggins at my
heels. I stole a look at Jiggins, and he sure did look queer—he looked
_beaten_.
Mark looked at him too. “You’re beat, Mr. Jiggins,” says he. “You’re
b-b-beat.”
Jiggins never said a word. Then Uncle Hieronymous put Collins down on
his feet.
“Easy, now,” he told him. “Stand without hitchin’, mister.” Then he
turned to Mark and me. “What in tunket be you boys doin’ here?” he
asked, looking puzzled and sort of vague. “Didn’t I leave you back to
Baldwin, eh? Didn’t I?”
“Have you signed anything?” asked Mark.
“Nary thing,” says Uncle Hieronymous.
“Hurray!” says Mark, and I joined in.
“What’s all this rumpus about?” uncle asked, wagging his head and
tugging at his mustache.
Jiggins pushed past me and tried to speak, but uncle looked at him
queer-like, and says:
“Mister, I guess you better let this here boy talk a spell. Seems like
I’m hankerin’ to hear him worse’n I be you.”
“But—” says Jiggins.
“I don’t want to speak to you noways but kind,” says uncle, beginning to
frown a little, “but it runs in my head you been up to somethin’,
mister. Now you jest keep still till Marcus Tidd gits in his say.”
Jiggins remembered how uncle had hoisted Collins, and didn’t say another
word. As for the lawyer-man, he was edging toward the door.
“Well?” says Uncle Hieronymous.
Then we told him, each of us trying to talk at once. We told him
everything from the beginning. We described how we got suspicious of
Collins, and how we found the letter and the telegram, and what we
overheard on the lake, and how we escaped from the cabin, and all about
our race down the river.
Uncle kept saying “Oh!” and “Ah!” and “Goodness gracious!” and grunting
like he was astonished most out of his head.
“A mine!” says he, when we were through. “Copper! Um! Who’d ’a’ thought
it? Not me. Nor Alfred. Hain’t that fine, now? I’m happy, eh? Alfred’s
happy. Marthy and Mary’ll be happy.” For a minnit he didn’t say a word;
then he turned to Collins and Jiggins, and you wouldn’t believe how
dignified he looked in that minnit. “And,” says he, gentle-like, but
accusingly, “you tried to git it away from me for three hundred dollars.
I hadn’t never done you no despite, had I? No. Then why did you fellers
try to do this? Don’t seem noways decent nor Christian to act like you
done. I guess,” he says, sorry-like, “that I don’t want to talk to you
no more. Come on, boys. Let’s go away from here.”
We went out of the door and left Jiggins & Co. standing there. I looked
back. They looked _ashamed_. Yes, sir; ashamed is the word. They weren’t
looking at each other at all, but at the floor. Somehow I felt ashamed
for them. I didn’t say a word to them, nor did Mark.
When we got out into the street uncle stopped and grabbed his leg
between his thumb and finger and pinched it good.
“’Tain’t no nightmare, is it?” he asked. “Them men was there, and there
is a mine, eh? No mistake?”
“There’s a mine,” says Mark, “and it’s worth a l-l-lot of money.”
“To be sure,” says Uncle Hieronymous. “Mines generally is. Well, well!
Who’d ’a’ thought it? Copper under that ol’ forty. Marcy me! What had I
best do? I dun’no’ what to do about it.”
“See a good lawyer,” says Mark. “He’ll know.”
“Dun’no’ any lawyer,” says Uncle Hieronymous.
Mark slapped his leg. “I know one,” says he, “and he’s one you can
t-t-trust, too. Name’s Macmillan. We met him fishin’ b-b-back of your
house.”
I remembered him right off and knew in a second he’d be a good man to go
to.
“Come on,” says Mark. “Let’s find him.”
So off we went looking for Mr. Macmillan. Uncle made up another poem as
we went along:
“I never seen sich a surprise;
It most knocks out a feller’s eyes.”
I expect it did pretty nearly surprise him to death.