Once he saw a sort of dilapidated shanty back a ways from the river, and there was a man standing in front of it. Mark said to go ashore and question him.
“He’s a p-peaceful Indian,” says Mark. “I can tell by his p-paint.”
We ran the canoe to shore and got out. The man walked toward us, and he was funny-looking as all-git-out. With one side of his face he was sort of scowling, and with the other side he came pretty close to grinning good-natured.
“Howdy-do,” says Mark; and the man nodded with a jerk.
“F-f-fine day,” says Mark.
“If you like it hot,” says the man.
“Live here?” asked Mark, polite as could be.
The man scowled harder with the scowling side, and kind of wrinkled up the good-natured side of his face. Then he gave the end of his nose a little twist like he wanted to make sure it wouldn’t fly off unbeknownst to him while his mind was taken up with other things. Then he cleared his throat and coughed and scratched his head.
“Wa-al,” says he, “I sleep here, and I eat here. Some folks that hain’t afraid of stretchin’ the truth might go so far’s to say I live here. Pers’nally it don’t look to me like I done a great amount of livin’, so to speak.”
“F-f-farm?” asked Mark.