“It’s him,” says he. “At any rate, it’s my hoss. We’d better git a hustle on.”
We jumped out of the carriage and went pell-mell into the store. There was a young woman and a middle-aged man there. He was Mr. Hoffer, and he was German, and he looked pretty tired and sick.
“Hoffer,” says Hamilcar, “you’re a-goin’ for a drive.”
“Nein,” says Hoffer. “Here must I stop. Business is business.”
“You need a rest, Hoffer. You’re a-lookin’ peeked. And you’re a-goin’ for a drive. Hamilcar Janes says you’re a-goin’, and he can’t afford to tell a lie. Git your hat, Hoffer.”
Mr. Hoffer smiled, feeble-like, but shook his head.
“Where’s his hat?” says Hamilcar to the young woman.
She pointed to it, and Hamilcar took it and tossed it to Mark. Then he walked right over to Hoffer and picked him up in his arms and carried him out of the store and set him in the back seat of the carriage.
“There,” says he. “Now set there and enjoy yourself.”
For a minute Mr. Hoffer looked a little upset and flustered and didn’t appear to know what to make of it. But then he smiled, and it was a gentle, grateful kind of a smile that made me feel choky in the throat.