I most tumbled off my chair. “What?” I says, not believing my ears.
“Wednesday Hogtoter,” he repeated. “Hogtoter, bein’ my father’s name, become mine natural-like. Wednesday was the day my father up and took a prize to the state fair for raisin’ the biggest potaters in the state. He deemed that day consid’able of a day, so he give it to me for a name.”
Mark Tidd was sniffing. I knew what that meant—something to eat. When I came to sniff a little myself I noticed coffee. My, but it smelled good! There was other things in the air, like bacon, and I thought I could pick out the odor of hot biscuits.
Mark looked at his watch.
“What time is it?” I asked.
He didn’t answer me, but asked a question of Mr. Hogtoter. “What t-t-time d’you eat?” he says.
“Half past five,” says Mr. Hogtoter.
Mark sighed. “Twenty minutes yet,” he says, and sank back, looking gloomier than all-git-out.
“Can we look at the engine?” I asked Mr. Hogtoter.
He allowed we could, so we went in the engine-room, but there wasn’t much to see. We came out again in a minnit to watch Mr. Hogtoter steer the scow up-stream again with the boom.