“Wait and see,” says he.
We went on a little farther, and then Mark says, “He’s got to be d-disposed of somehow.”
“Who?” says I.
“The feller that’s f-followin’ Tod Nodder.”
“Why him and not the rest?”
“I got an idee they’ll come nigh to disposin’ of themselves,” says he.
And that was all I could get out of him. You never in your life saw such a close-mouthed boy as Mark Tidd. Why, there were things he wouldn’t tell even to himself, and as for letting loose of a fact to anybody else before he got good and ready to tell it—you might as well sit around waiting for a boulder to roll up a hill. I knew him, so I didn’t waste any breath asking more questions. No, sir, I just mogged along and said nothing and made the best of it.
In a couple of minutes I was surprised some. “Why,” says I, “they’re turnin’ right down to our mill!”
“So they be,” says Mark, in that way he has when he is pretty well satisfied with himself, a sort of cat-purr. “So they be.” Then after a minute he says, “Come on,” and grabbed me by the arm. We cut over the bank and slid down into the log-yard, and then ducked around the logs until we came to the back door of the mill. Here Mark grabbed hold of me again and we crouched down in a black shadow and waited. In about a second Tod Nodder came along, and he was carrying something. I couldn’t see what it was, but it looked kind of like a basket. In went Tod, for the door wasn’t locked, and then along came the man that had been following Tod, and in he went.
“Plunk,” says Mark, “scoot over to the dam and see if a boat hain’t t-t-tied jest above it.”