“Now what?” says I.
“Goodness knows!” says Mark. “But we’ll find out q-q-quick.”
Which we did.
CHAPTER XVIII
Silas Doolittle Bugg was sitting on a log outside the mill, looking as if somebody had just told him the executioner was coming along to cut off both his legs with a meat-ax. He was about the most woebegone and sorrowful and downhearted-looking man I ever set eyes on. He drooped all over like a geranium that has been touched by frost. Yes, sir, he looked like all his leaves was going to fall off.
“M-mornin, Silas!” says Mark.
Silas just looked up and nodded and then looked down again. I was afraid he might start in to cry.
“S-somethin’ wrong?” says Mark.
“Everythin’,” says Silas.
“For instance?” says Mark.