“He has ’em in his sleep,” says I.
“How about it?” says Mark. “Will you do what we want you to?”
“You bet,” says Mr. Hamilton.
“We want to be around s-s-somewheres,” says Mark, “where we can hear it. Where can we hide?”
“Smalley here might get in the closet,” says Hamilton, with a grin, “but you weren’t made to fit closets, Tidd. You’ll have to have a room. Suppose we try the woodshed there—and leave the door open. I guess you’ll be able to hear, all right.”
“We’ll go back there n-now,” says Mark. “It wouldn’t do for Jehoshaphat P. to catch a glimpse of us.”
So back we went. We didn’t have to sit around long, either, for along came Mr. Skip, looking as cross as all-git-out. He came stamping in and scowled at Mr. Hamilton.
“Are you the feller that’s lookin’ after this sale for Hoffer?” says he.
“Yes,” says Mr. Hamilton.
“He hain’t got much of a stock,” says Skip, “and what he’s got don’t amount to much.”