“Wait a s-s-second,” says he, and he hurried into the store and up to a man standing by the counter.
“L-l-lemme take this r-rope,” he stuttered, all out of breath. “I need it b-bad. Bring it back s-s-sure.” You never heard such stuttering!
“Say that over ag’in, young feller,” says the man.
“I want to b-b-borrow this rope,” spluttered Mark, getting sort of mad.
The man grinned. “That there’s a perty valuable rope,” he said. “I dun’no’s I got a more valuable piece’n that. I’m right down proud of that rope, I am. Don’t no-ways calc’late to lose it. Got any security, young feller?”
In a second Mark had out his watch, snapped it off his chain, and laid it down on the counter.
“There,” says he, and fairly ran out of the store with the rope in his hand. He went out the front door, and I after him.
“Now what?” I asked.
He didn’t say a word, but just began coiling that rope as careful as if it was made of solid gold and he was afraid of scratching it. And all the time Uncle Hieronymous was in that room with those two men. By this time, maybe, they had his mine all taken away from him.
“Hurry!” says I. “Hurry! Hurry!”