“See that?” she says to everybody. “He can’t help it. I ’spect he realizes he hain’t sane and tries to act sane, but can’t manage it. Hain’t it a shame, and him so young! Jest think of him bein’ shut up in an asylum from his age. Maybe he’ll live to be ninety like Clem Adams’s second wife’s cousin, that thought she was a cook-stove and used to go around tryin’ to fry onions in a pan on her head.” “Lemme go,” says I, “’fore I git violent.” “Violent!” says she, as satisfied as a purring cat. “I calc’late he’ll be dangerous. I’ll bet right now he’s figgerin’ on doin’ somebody a damage.” “I be,” says I. Just then Mark Tidd came through the crowd, looking as grave as a pelican, only fatter. “Mrs. Coots,” says he, “l-lemme try to manage the poor f-f-feller. He knows me well,” says he, “and I guess I kin g-git him away ’fore he hurts anybody. You got to humor sich cases,” says he. “He might maul you,” says she. “I hain’t afraid,” says he; “jest leggo and give me a t-t-try.” So she let go, and Mark takes me by the arm and says: “Plunk, this is Mark Tidd. D’you know me?” “You _bet_ I know you,” says I. “There,” says he to Mrs. Coots; “he knows me.” “He’s lookin’ at you perty mean,” says she. “I calc’late he feels some het up,” says Mark. “Now, Plunk,” he says, “I know how you f-f-feel. You feel like that baby ought to hear the b-band and git some cool air, don’t you? Well, you’re right. Yes, sir. But hain’t you scairt that maybe she’ll catch c-c-cold?” “Somebody’ll catch somethin’,” says I. “I t-t-tell you what,” says he, “if I was you I’d git that baby indoors and put her to b-b-bed. She’ll be gettin’ mumps or somethin’ if you drag her around in the night air. You jest take a walk with me and we’ll put her to bed. Hain’t that best?” “Somebody’s goin’ to be put to bed,” says I, “but it won’t be with mumps.” He sort of chuckled. “Plunk,” says he, in a whisper, “we got to git out of here. That man Wiggamore’s just gone off up the street with Jason Barnes that owns the land next above our m-m-mill, and we got to f-f-find out what they’re talkin’ about, if we kin.” Then he says, out loud, “Now come along like a s-s-sensible father,” says he. “Come on.” I started along with him, and the crowd hooted and laughed, but Mrs. Coots was as serious as ever and tagged along with us. “I got to see him shut up,” she says. “Runnin’ at large he’s a danger to the community.” “Scoot!” says Mark, and he give me a little shove. You can believe I scooted. If you ever tried to run pushing a doll-cart in front of you, you know what a time I had. The thing kept wabbling and trying to go off sideways. Seemed like it was alive. But I made good time. I don’t reckon Mrs. Coots could have caught me if she was riding on a race-horse. I made tracks for the Baptist church, and jumped into a dark corner and stood still. Pretty soon Mark came lumbering past and I called to him. He stopped.