“Gimme a sandwich,” says he. “I’m ’most starved. Jest one sandwich.”
“We got lots,” says Mark, “but maybe we’ll have to stay here quite a s-s-spell. If you was to see reason and sign your name alongside of George’s, we m-might do somethin’ for you.”
But he wouldn’t. Not then. We talked some more about food and quicksand and snakes, and dropped crumbs on his head, and all to once he sort of caved in.
“Gimme a sandwich,” says he, “and I’ll sign anything.”
“Honest?” says Mark.
“Honest,” says he.
“Maybe,” says Mark, “but we’d rather you s-s-signed first. First sign, then eat, then we’ll help you out.”
“Anything,” says he. “Send along your paper. Anything to get out of this hole.”
“Wiggamore won’t like it,” says Mark.
“Don’t I know it? Well, I hain’t goin’ to tell him. I’m a-goin’ to light out of this town quick. Wiggamore won’t never see me again. I’ve got enough. I’m through with this business. There hain’t no good luck in it.”