“Nine miles to Wicksville—sixteen miles to Sunfield,” says I to myself.
“Come on up to the hotel,” says Mark. “Let’s see if the f-fellers have telephoned.”
They had telephoned. The hotel man gave us the message.
“Skip left at seven-thirty in an auto,” it says.
There you are! Skip had left in a machine—that could get to Sunfield three times as fast as a horse. We were in Wilkinstown without even a horse.
“I calc’late,” says I, “that here’s where Jehoshaphat gits to buy a five-and-ten-cent store.”
Mark’s little eyes were sparkling and his lips were pressed tight and his jaw was set.
“We’re a-goin’ to git to Sunfield,” says he, “and we’re a-goin’ to git there f-f-first.” My, how he stuttered it!
“Sure,” says I. “I forgot all about my new airoplane. You kin just as well use it as not.”
He didn’t say anything back, but in a minute he asked me, “Know anything about automobiles, Plunk?”