He talked on and on, telling us about his travels and adventures, asking us a question once in a while; and altogether I thought he was a pretty good sort of a man, and better company I never met. At last he says: “You were speaking of opportunity. May I inquire—ask is the more common word—what opportunity you are looking for. I do not desire to pry. Zadok Biggs is the least inquisitive of men, but perhaps I can aid—help—you with my advice.”
“We are lookin’,” says Mark, and I was mighty surprised at him, “for an opportunity to git back a t-t-turbine.”
“Oh,” says Zadok Biggs, looking kind of blank and bewildered, “a turbine, eh? Of course, a turbine—engine is the more usual expression, I believe. Who, if I may ask, has the turbine?”
Mark told him the whole thing, and he nodded his head and muttered and scowled as he listened. When Mark was done Zadok Biggs sat still a long time. Finally he said, “There are no two ways about it, the opportunity would come, but, I pause to ask, will it come soon enough, or if it comes will you be able to take full advantage of it. On these points I must admit, in spite of your name, that I do not know. It seems dubious—doubtful is the more customary expression—very dubious.” He stopped again and pulled two stalks of grass which he chewed and chewed like he was getting some sort of help from them. Pretty soon he says, “If I were you, in your circumstances and surroundings, I would go back to Wicksville, a fine town, and tell the story to a man I could trust. It would be the safer way, the surer way. Mind I do not say your schemes are impossible—nothing is impossible to a boy named Marcus Aurelius Fortunatus Tidd, nothing, but it would be safer.”
Mark frowned and looked at the ground. After a while he raised his eyes and sighed. “If,” says he, “the opportunity ain’t showed up in an hour I’ll go b-b-back.”
Zadok Biggs scrambled to his feet and clambered up on his wagon. “I’m journeying—driving is the more usual word—to Wicksville. I shall arrive to-morrow, for I stop to-night on the way. Bear in mind that I am your friend—your friend for life. If I can be of assistance—do anything for you—let me know. I shall be easy to find.”
With that he drove off down the road, whistling “Marching Through Georgia” to the top of his voice, or to the top of his whistle, and we watched him till his wagon turned the bend.
“Well,” says Mark, “he seemed to agree with you.”
“Yes,” I says. “He’s a man of good sense.”
“B-b-but I got an hour yet,” Mark says, getting in the last word.