“Mark!” I yelled as soon as I got to the front door. “Hey, Mark! Quick!”
“T-take it easy,” says he. “Where’s the fire?”
“Fire!” says I. “You’ll wish it was a fire.”
“Um!” says he. “Out with the sad news, Plunk. Let’s weep t-t-together.”
I told him as fast as I could. His little eyes began to glow and you could see his chin setting under the fat. He was mad, mad clear through the whole of him.
“That J-j-jehoshaphat P. Skip,” says he, “is about as low down as they make ’em. He’s a human skunk.” Then he shut up like a steel trap.
“Well?” says I.
“Stay here,” says he. “I’m goin’ out—and I’ll be b-b-back when I git here.” My! how he stuttered!
“Where you goin’?” says I.
“Telegraph-office first,” says he. “Don’t know where then.” At that he waddled out of the door as fast as he could go. He had some scheme, and he was after Jehoshaphat. Somehow I felt as if I’d rather be somebody else than Mr. Skip, too. When Mark has that look on his face you want to look out for him.