“What you been doing?” I asked him.
“Oh, just cutting out these things,” says he, and pointed to three or four pieces of sapling trunk about twice as long and thick as towel-rollers, over on the sand.
“Cuttin’ stove-wood?”
“Nope. Just thought they might come in handy,” says he.
I didn’t ask any more about them, because I saw right off he had some kind of a scheme; and when Mark has a scheme the only thing to do is wait till he gets ready to tell you about it. You could ask him questions all day, and never get a hint of what he was up to.
I went into the cave and looked around, casual-like. There was the engine. I couldn’t see it, really, because it was all covered up by the sheets; but I could tell it was there, and I felt pretty proud to think we’d been able to get it back. The thing now was to keep it, and so far we’d done average well.
I came out with a pail in my hand. “I’m thirsty,” says I. “I wonder if there ain’t some way to get a drink?”
“Wish there was,” says Mark, “but I don’t see how.”
“Maybe I could get up over the hill and around to the spring.”
“Better not try; you had enough bad luck last time you went away.”