“We accept,” says Mark.
“Good. We will have the proper papers drawn—”
“And meantime,” says the fat director, “I want to see whether that Tidd boy can eat as much as I can. I’m going to invite the lot of you to dinner to watch the contest, and, believe me, friends, it is going to be some spectacle. It starts as soon as we can get to the best place to eat in town.”
Everybody got up and we went out, and that fat man bought us a dinner that I sha’n’t ever forget, and I bet Mark won’t either. I didn’t know there was such grub in the world, and I ate till I ’most exploded. But Mark—well, you should have seen it. Him and that fat man had hardly started when we commenced, and they kept on for an hour, with all the rest of those directors laughing and urging them just as if it was a baseball game. It ended up with the fat director laying back in his chair, panting, and with Mark finishing up a thing they called a French pastry and asking if he couldn’t have a couple more. Yes, sir, he beat that man by three French pastries, and was declared to be the champion eater of Michigan.
They were all mighty good to us, and we were kind of sorry to go home. They took us to the theater, and wanted us to stay another day, but we thought we’d better get back to work, so we left on the midnight train and got to Wicksville the next morning.
We went right to the mill, and there was Silas Doolittle Bugg sitting on the same log, looking sadder than he did when we saw him last. I don’t know whether he had sat there right along, or whether he went home to sleep and for meals. I never found out.
“Mornin’, Silas,” says Mark.
“Mornin’,” says Silas, mournful and glum.
“Mill hain’t runnin’ yet?”
“How could it? It hain’t n-never goin’ to run no more.”