“Of what?” says I.
“This mill,” says he.
“Depends,” says I, “on who you mean by proprietor. I’m dummed if I know jest who is holdin’ down that job. There’s things in favor of sev’ral folks. Now there’s Silas Doolittle Bugg; some might claim he owns it. Then there’s Mr. Tidd; some might say he was the feller. Then there’s Mark Tidd; he comes in somewheres, but I’m blessed if I know just where.”
“Where are they?”
“Different places,” says I. “Was there anything I could do for you?”
“Answer questions so I’ll know what you’re talking about,” says he.
Well, that made me mad. From that minute I took a dislike to the man, and I never got over it. I guess I wouldn’t be letting go of any secret if I was to say that the longer I knew him the less I liked him.
“Mister,” says I, not smarty, but just firm and business-like, the way Mark says you should always be, “I’m one of the fellers that’s runnin’ this mill. If you got any business here you kin state it to me. If you hain’t got any business here, why, I’m sort of busy dustin’ off the furniture. Now, what kin I do for you?”
“I want to find the owner.”
“I’ve explained about the owner.”