CHAPTER XIV
Pretty soon we couldn’t even hear the tin-peddler’s whistle, and Mark got up onto his feet, painful-like. He stretched, which was taking a chance on busting out some seams, and yawned. Lots of things Mark Tidd does look funny, but if there’s anything more comical a fat boy can do than yawn I’d give something to see it.
“Just an hour,” says he, “to f-find that opportunity.”
“Might not take ten minutes,” I says. “From what I know of opportunities they’re onreliable. They’re just as apt to catch you early in the mornin’ as late at night. No tellin’ when they come prowlin’ around.”
“We’ll go ahead like I p-planned for an hour. Then we’ll go home if nothin’ hasn’t turned up.”
“Good!” says I. “That suits me down to the ground.”
“There ain’t but sixty minutes in an hour,” says he, “and every one that gits away from you is one less you got. Let’s be stirrin’ around.”
“Stir ahead,” I told him, getting onto my feet. “Get your old spoon to workin’.”
Mark was looking at Sammy with a kind of glint in his eye. He didn’t need to tell me he was thinking of some use to put that big fellow to; you could see it sticking out all over him.
“Um,” says he. “You’re too dangerous-lookin’ to waste, Sammy.”