“Who’s in charge durin’ his absence?” says the man, talking like a college professor looking for a job.
I was going to say I was, but before I spoke up I knew that wasn’t the truth. Not a bit of it. Mark Tidd was in charge, and don’t you forget it. Being in charge was a habit he’d got, and nobody will ever cure him of it.
“Why,” says I, “Mark Tidd is the boss right now.”
“I’d like to speak to him,” says he, so I turned and called.
Mark came waddling up with the dust still on his nose and more dust on his fingers, and what you might call a freshet of sweat cutting streaks down his face.
“This,” says I, “is Mark Tidd, our manager,” and then I stood off to see what would happen.
Mr. Long Neck wrinkled his nose till his wart moved up almost to his eyebrows and squinted at Mark.
“I hain’t here to be made fun of,” says he, mad-like.
Mark turned his head on one side, and that’s a dangerous sign. When you see him pull his cheek or turn his head on one side or go to whittling—well, you want to look out, for something is going to happen.
“What can I do for you?” Mark asked, without a stutter.