He went to the telegraph-office and sent half a dozen telegrams to the folks we did business with in Detroit. They were all the same:
Look out for a man named Skip. Make no deal till I come.
Mark Tidd.
After that he rented a horse and buggy and drove off somewhere into the country. I didn’t know where, and nobody else did. He was gone till almost five o’clock. Then he came dashing in, looking pretty pleased about something, and says:
“Got to g-go to Detroit on the five-thirty. Comin’?”
“Yes,” says I. “When’ll we be back?”
“T-to-morrow,” says he.
He left Tallow and Binney in charge of the Bazar, and we hurried off to get our nightgowns and tooth-brushes. The train was five minutes late as usual, or we never would have caught it.
It was ’most midnight when we got into Detroit, so we went to a hotel right across the road from the depot and went to bed. Mark told the man at the desk to call us at six o’clock.
I went to sleep right off because I was tired, and I guess Mark did, too. Sleeping was one of the things he was good at. He could sleep and eat more than any fellow I ever knew—and stay awake more when it was necessary.