He just grinned and turned to Silas Doolittle. “You tell those m-men,” he says, “that they kin have their money as s-soon as the whistle blows to-morrow night.”
“Have you got it?” I says, suspicious in a minute.
“No,” says he.
“Know where you kin git it?”
“No,” says he.
“Then,” says I to Silas, “I wouldn’t go makin’ any positive promises to nobody.”
Mark went off to the room he was going to use for an office, and sat down on a wabbly chair that was in it. I could see him through the door. He sat there pinching his fat cheek like he always does when he has something to puzzle out. He didn’t whittle. If he had started in to whittle I’d have felt more cheerful, for when he starts to figger and whittle, then you can make up your mind he’s having a hard time. Whittling with him is a sort of last resort. He don’t do it unless everything else fails. Pretty soon he came out and says to Silas:
“There’s a cart and horse b-b’longin’ to this mill, hain’t there?”
“Yes,” says Silas.
“Better have it here at s-seven in the m-mornin’,” says he. “You kin drive a horse, Tallow?”