I went back to the corner of the street where Mark had gone after the lumberman and waited there. In fifteen minutes he came limping along, looking as tired and disconsolate-like as if he was just getting in from a seven-days’ journey and somebody had stolen his clothes the last day out.
“Well?” says I.
He shook his head. “Not much g-g-good,” says he. “He don’t know who Uncle Hieronymous works for, and he d-d-don’t know where he is. P-promised to tell him we were here if he saw him.”
“Well,” says I, “Jiggins & Co. are tucked in their little beds and won’t be out till seven o’clock to-morrow. Have you got any good arguments why we shouldn’t find a place to sleep?”
“N-n-nary argument,” says Mark.
“Where’ll we go?”
“Let’s t-try that little hotel back yonder. The one with the b-b-balcony in front.”
“All right,” says I. “Have we got money enough?”
“I’ve g-got five dollars and thirty-two c-c-cents,” says he.
That looked like it would be enough, so we went back to the little hotel and stirred up the man, who was fast asleep behind his counter. He made us pay a dollar in advance, because he said we didn’t have any baggage. He grinned then and said he didn’t calc’late we looked over-trustworthy. Said we looked to him like we were dangerous characters and ought to be watched, and made a great clatter about locking up his little safe. There are a lot of men who think it’s awful funny to make fun of boys that way. I’ve known men who never got a joke on a grown man that were always picking onto kids. But this fellow picked on the wrong kid. Mark stood it awhile, getting more and more provoked every second. At last he lays down the dollar and says: