“We’ll w-w-wiggle all right,” says he, “but we won’t start till we see somethin’ to wiggle about. Jest wigglin’ won’t git any money. Thing to do is to set and figger out some possible way, and then make it work.”
“Good!” says I. “You set and figger and we’ll go on cleanin’ up the mill. I notice every time there’s any hard work to do you got somethin’ you have to set down and think about.”
“Well,” says he, “if I got any help thinkin’ out of you I wouldn’t have to stick to it so constant. You’re a heap better cleaner, Plunk, than you be thinker. Somebody might pay you to clean, but the feller that paid you to think would be advertisin’ for a r-r-room in the l-lunatic-asylum.”
“Shucks!” says I, which was the best thing I could think of just at that minute. It wasn’t such a good remark either, when you come to think of it. I might have figgered out something a heap sharper and more cutting if I’d been given time, but I wasn’t. It’s funny what smart retorts you can think of two or three days after you need them. But Mark always managed to think of them right off. Seemed like he had a bundle of them on hand ready to shoot off whenever he wanted one.
Well, we went ahead cleaning up that mill, and, to give Mark what credit is due, he came around and gave us some hints how to lift some of the heavier things. By night we’d made quite some difference in the looks of things.
“Anyhow,” says Mark, “we got r-r-room to m-manufacture now, whether we ever git to m-manufacturin’ or not. I hope Silas Doolittle gits enough men.”
Along came Silas about four o’clock, looking sort of discouraged. He slumped down on the saw-carriage and lopped his head like he was a wilted poppy, and let out a groan.
“Stummick-ache?” says Tallow.
“Naw,” boomed Silas.
“What then?” says Mark.