“That way out,” says Mark, and walked away, leaving Mr. Wiggamore with his mouth all open and ready to speak—but with nobody to speak to. I guess he was an economical man, and not wasteful of words, because he shut his mouth again before any of them got out of it, and scowled a second, and then turned around quick and went out.
Mark came over to me and stopped. “Say, Plunk,” says he, “don’t it b-b-beat all? Every time we git into anythin’ trouble’s sure to t-t-turn up.”
“Yes,” says I, “and you’re glad of it.”
CHAPTER III
“First thing we got to think of,” says Mark, “is how we’re g-g-goin’ to git the money to p-pay off the men Saturday night.”
“How much’ll it be?” says I.
“Depends on how many men Silas Doolittle hires. Looks to me like f-five or six men ought to run this mill. That would mean about a hunderd dollars.”
“Huh!” says I. “Might as well make it a million. Where be we goin’ to look for a hunderd dollars?”
“Wisht I knew,” says Mark, “but we got to have it.”
“Then we better git a wiggle on us.”