“Back there somewheres, in some kind of a mess, I guess.”
“You’ve been running,” he said, and eyed me a minute. “What for?”
“I was being chased.”
“A very good reason, very good, indeed. I know of no better reason for running than that you are being pursued—chased, as you say. Who chased you?”
“Batten and Bill,” I says.
He began to hop up and down on his short legs; his eyes got bright and he slapped his leg. “Did they chase you far? Away from the house?”
“Quarter of a mile, maybe.”
“What made ’em stop?”
“Old Willis was hollerin’ his head off back at the farm.”
“Opportunity!” says Zadok Biggs, and he danced a little jig. “You never know when it’s coming. Never! How does it feel to be an opportunity?” he shot at me sudden-like, “or, at least, part of one?”