I could see Mark’s eyes begin to twinkle and knew he was enjoying himself. Pretty soon Old Mose snapped at him again.
“I won’t have no folks in the house with me. Not me. Can’t make ’em shet up when you want ’em to. Talk, talk, talk, that’s the way with folks. Never run down.”
“Yes, sir,” says Mark.
“Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Can’t you say nothin’ but ‘Yes, sir’?”
“Yes, sir,” says Mark, as innocent to look at as a head of cabbage.
Old Mose reached for his ears and took one in each hand. Then he stamped on the floor, and while he stamped he pulled. That’s how his ears got so big, likely. Mad! My! he was mad. He jabbered and growled and called Mark an “idjit,” and allowed that of all idjits he was the worst, and how came anybody to take the trouble to raise him? He went on quite a spell before he quieted down. Then he started off on folks in general again.
“I don’t like folks,” he says in his cracked voice. “I don’t like to have ’em around. But I git tired of the sound of my own voice. Mighty tired. Lots of times I don’t talk to myself for a whole day, b’jing! There’s times when I want somebody to talk to me. But you can’t trust folks. They wouldn’t shut up. Not them. Can’t turn ’em off. That’s why I come here.” He glared at Mark as though he was to blame for the whole thing. “Heard one of them talkin’-machines, that’s what! Human voice comin’ out of it. Talk! Sing! Whistle! Likewise playin’ of bands and sich-like. Better’n a human. Better comp’ny. Kin turn the screw and shut ’em off.... Got one of them talkin’-machines to sell?”
“Yes, sir,” says Mark, and Old Mose scowled at him like he was ready to take a chunk out of his leg. “We g-got three kinds. Forty dollars, seventy dollars, and hundred and ten dollars.”
“More’n they’re wuth! More’n they’re wuth. It’s a cheat, I say. Forty dollars! Whoosh!”
“Let me p-play them for you,” says Mark.