"Mr.
Black was here twice this afternoon."

"_Twice?_" I said. "What for? What did he want?"

"Oh he was just visiting around, getting acquainted with the parents
of the boys. Such a beautiful brown saddle horse," Mom said. "And he
was so polite."

"The horse?" Poetry said, and maybe shouldn't have, but Mom ignored
his remark and said, "He took a picture of our house and barn and
tried to get one of Mixy cat, but Mixy was scared of the horse, I
guess, and ran like a frightened rabbit."

"Was he actually taking pictures?" Poetry asked with a worried voice.

"Yes, and he wanted to get one of you boys playing on Bumblebee
hill.... But you were all gone, he said, but he found the book you
left there, so he brought it back--you know, the one Mrs. Mansfield
wanted."

"What book?" I said, pretending to be surprised. "Did Mrs. Mansfield
want a book?"

And Mom who was standing at our back door bareheaded, and shouldn't
have been, on account of she might catch cold, said, "Yes, she phoned
here for _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_, while Mr. Black was here, but I
knew _your_ mother had one, Poetry, so I told her to call _there_."

Poetry and I were looking at each other, wondering "What on earth?"
Then Mom said, "Mr. Black thought maybe you boys had been reading it
or something and had forgotten it when you left."

"D-d-d-did he--did he--?" Poetry began, but stuttered so much he had
to stop and start again, and said, "Did he say _where_ he found it? I
mean was it--that is, where did he _find_ it?"

"He didn't say," Mom said, "but he said since he was going on over to
Mrs. Mansfield's anyway, he'd take it over for me, so you won't have
to take it over, Bill," Mom finished.

Well, that was that.... Poetry and I sighed to each other, and he
said, "Did you tell my mother?"

"I've just called her," Mom said, "and you're to come on home right
away to get the chores done early.... It's early to bed for all of us
on Saturday night, you know."

Poetry must have felt pretty bad, just like I did, but he managed to
say to Mom politely, "Thank you, Mrs. Collins. I'll hurry right on
home."

I walked out to the gate with him, and for a jiffy we just stood and
looked at each other, both of us with worried looks on our faces.

"Do you suppose he really took a picture of himself with that poem on
his stomach?" Poetry asked. "And if he did, _who_ on earth put it
there?"

"I don't know," I said, "but what would he want with pictures