“Um!” says Mark. “Can’t swim, eh? I want to know. Sure you can’t swim?”
“Give you my word. Honest Injun. Cross my heart.”
“Um!” Mark sat down on the mud bank and thought a second. “Let him l-l-land,” says he to me, which I done, not willing, but because a fellow has to obey orders even if he don’t agree with them.
Mr. Man got out on shore, and quick as a wink Mark jumped up and give his boat a shove out into the current. It went swinging off out of reach, and the man looked after it like somebody had just up and stole his best friend. He was mad, too.
“Say, what you mean, anyhow? How be I goin’ to git off’n this island?”
“Why,” says Mark, grinning friendly and cordial, “you kin w-w-wait till winter and walk off on the ice.”
“Hain’t there another boat?”
“There is,” says Mark, winking at me, “but there won’t be long.”
I got what he meant in a jiffy and off I scooted. It wasn’t five seconds before George’s boat was floating off down-stream and everybody on that island that couldn’t swim was marooned.
“Now,” says Mark, “let’s be c-c-comfortable.”