“Five o’clock,” says I. “What’s the use of goin’ to bed at all?”
Mark he sort of grinned and says: “This Rock business is a sort of s-s-side issue with us. What we’re doin’ for a livin’ is run a newspaper—and we got to give consid’able time to it.”
That was Mark Tidd all over. Business was first. He could tend to business more and harder than any kid I ever heard of.
Next morning we were on hand when Mark said, and off we started toward the place where we lost track of Rock. Mark was as sure as ever he was some place close around. “Bet I can p-prove it pretty quick,” says he, “and after I’ve proved it I bet I can go straight to where he’s asleep this minute.”
“Shucks!” says I.
“Will you eat a r-rotten apple if I can’t?” says Mark.
Well, I knew him pretty well, and when he talked like that he was pretty sure he knew what he was talking about, so I sort of backed down as easy as I could. He didn’t say anything, but just grinned aggravating.
There was just one farm out that way, and Mark headed us in the yard and around to the barn, where Mr. Soggs was milking.
“’Mornin’, Mr. Soggs,” says he.
“Up kinder early, hain’t ye?” says Mr. Soggs.