Mark looked at me and grinned. “F-f-funny he didn’t kick us out,” says he.
“Mark Tidd,” says I, “I take off my hat. Talk about grabbin’ a opportunity when it’s passin’! Well, I guess maybe you didn’t grab this one.”
“You lugged in the opportunity,” says Mark, giving me credit like he always does, even though I didn’t deserve much of it. “But we hain’t quite through grabbin’ yet,” says he. “We got to see Mr. Giddings.”
We went catercorner across the street to the Busy Big Market, and there was Mr. Giddings in the door, with a grin on his face, looking down at a crate of eggs. On the crate he had just stuck a sign, which read:
These Eggs Were Laid by Hardworking, Honest Hens
The Oldest Is Under Twenty-Four Hours
Buy Your Eggs Here—Don’t Go Elsewhere
Our Competitors’ Chickens Have Ague
Their Eggs Are Scrambled in the Shell
Mark started in to laugh and nudged me with his elbow.
“Laugh, you chump,” says he, “l-l-laugh.”