Mark and I started to get down again. I managed all right, but he had quite a time of it. When we were down we went to the back window with Plunk and Tallow. Collins and Jiggins were moving their tent about ten feet farther from the house.
“Well,” says I to him, “that was fun, all right, but what good did it do?”
He pointed to the tent. “It m-moves them another t-ten feet away,” says he. “That may be important p-p-pretty soon.”
CHAPTER VIII
It was time for us to go to bed, but Mark called us into the dining-room to a council of war. We sat down around the table, with Mark at the head. He started talking almost in a whisper.
“S-s-speak low,” says he. “We don’t want the enemy to overhear our plans.”
That was right, for they might have sneaked up to the side of the house to listen. Mark wasn’t the sort of fellow to neglect any precaution just because it might not be necessary. Sometimes I thought he was too cautious, but usually it turned out he did the right thing.
“We can’t g-git out of here by daylight,” he says. “It’s got to be at n-n-night or early in the morning. Morning’s the best time, ’cause folks are t-t-tired with watchin’. ’Bout three in the m-mornin’.”
“You seem pretty sure we’re goin’ to git out,” says I.
“We got to git out,” says he, just as if that settled it. It didn’t seem to enter his head that sometimes folks can’t do things they think they’ve got to do.