Maybe fifteen minutes went along before he heard anything, and then it was a whistle from up the river way, and the tune it whistled was “Marching Through Georgia.”
Then the tin-peddler’s red wagon came into sight, with Zadok Biggs sitting on the seat, his head back, as we had first seen him, taking it easy, enjoying the morning, and whistling so the birds must have been jealous. Maybe they thought Zadok Biggs was some sort of a bird himself; if they did, birds must be able to stretch their imaginations considerable.
Mark never was so glad to see anybody in his life. He stepped out into the road and waited. Zadok came driving along without seeing him until Mark spoke; then he straightened up, looked at Mark, and slapped his leg. He slapped it again and chuckled, and began talking to the horse.
“Rosinante,” he says, “there he stands! There stands Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd. Observe him—look at him is the way people usually say it. Mind what I said about opportunity, Rosinante. Here stands Marcus Aurelius, who has had an opportunity. We shall pause—stop—shall we not, to inquire what he did with it.” He swung his little legs sideways over the edge of the seat and stared down at Mark.
“Opportunity,” says he, “and Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus. Um! It knocked, so to speak. Were you in?”
“Well,” says Mark, “I wasn’t f-f-far off.”
“Good! Excellent! I said so. I told young Martin you would not disappoint me. I would have been disappointed. I, Zadok Biggs, am your friend, your friend for life, and I would have been grieved. You got the—the turbine?” He shot the last question at Mark like it was a pea out of a pea-blower. It came out with a sort of poof.
Mark nodded. “I got it; but it ain’t safe yet.”
“So? You are perturbed—worried is the commoner word. I am not. I have confidence in you. How could one named Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd let failure roost in the nest of success? A figure of speech that, a sort of metaphor. You understand me?”
“I guess so. What I want to know is, will you do me a f-f-favor?”