“Wonderful,” says Mark, and he said it so sincere and natural-like that I almost believed he felt that way about it myself. He didn’t even wink at me when he said it. No, sir, you can bet he didn’t. When Mark Tidd was doing a thing, he did it thorough. I knew he was taffying Lish, and he knew I knew it, but would he wink at me? Not much. He was pretendin’ he did admire Lish, that’s what he was doin’, and he pretended it so hard that he did admire him while it was going on.
“Who did you say that s-s-shipment went to?” Mark says, in a minute.
“Family Chair Company, of course. Over to Bostwick. How many times have I got to tell you, eh? Got to stand here a-yellin’ it at you all the mornin’?”
“Much obleeged,” says Mark, and out we went.
We didn’t have to wait long for the train to Bostwick, and it was just an hour’s ride, so we got there quite a while before noon. Bostwick was considerable of a place, with lots of factories and about fifty-six times as many stores and houses as Wicksville. I was bothered a little thinking maybe we might get lost, but then I says to myself:
“So long as you’re with Mark Tidd you’re all right. You might get lost, Plunk Smalley, but there hain’t any chance of mislayin’ Mark. Might as well try to lose the Goddess of Liberty.” So I went along with him and kept my mouth shut, which is a wise thing to do in a heap of cases.
Mark he prances up to a policeman and says, “Mister, where be we g-g-goin’ to find the Family Chair Company?”
The policeman looked at Mark and grinned, and then he says, “They don’t make that kind of furniture, son.”
“What kind?” says Mark.
“Iron,” says the policeman.