“Well?” says I.
“See what it is,” says he.
“I know,” says I; “it’s the feller with the vest. Come on.”
George Piggins looked some put out, and sort of startled-like and flabbergasted. Things was happening too rapid to make George happy. He wasn’t what you’d call quick at any time, and right now he was about seven minutes behind events without any chance of ever catching up. The last I see of him for a spell consisted mainly of open mouth, for Mark and I made a jump toward the shore.
When we got there Mr. Man was half-way across in some kind of a boat he had picked up.
“We kin hold him off,” says I; “there hain’t but one of him.”
“Maybe,” says Mark. “Scoot back and git that l-l-long pole layin’ near George.”
I done so and got there when Mr. Man was about fifty feet off, and then we all stood up and looked at him and waited. He had his back toward us and didn’t see us till he turned around to take his bearings, and then he turned ’way around and squinted and says, “Good mornin’.”
“Good mornin’,” says Mark.
“Campin’?” says the man.