“Hain’t l-l-lookin’ for iron furniture.”
“You hain’t? Now I made sure you was. Lookin’ at you, I jest naturally says to myself, here’s a feller lookin’ for a chair he kin set in without smashin’ it flat. That’s what I says. And, says I, no wooden chair made’ll hold him more’n a second. No, if you’re lookin’ for furniture to set in yourself, young feller, better go somewheres else.”
He didn’t say it mean and disagreeable, but jolly and good-natured, and Mark didn’t get mad like he generally does when somebody twits him about being fat. He grinned back and says:
“’Tain’t for me, mister. I hain’t usin’ furniture no m-m-more. I busted up so much the f-f-folks makes me set on the floor. There’s a dent in the f-floor where I gen’ally set, but Dad’s propped it up from underneath with a four-by-four.... Where’d you say that factory was?”
“Hop on this street-car,” says the policeman, “and git off when it gits to the end of the line. You’ll see a whoppin’-big factory to your left.”
“Yes,” says Mark.
“Well, that hain’t it,” says the policeman, and grins again. “It’s the whoppin’-big one to your right.”
“Much obleeged,” says Mark, and we went out and got on the car that was stopping. It took us maybe twenty minutes to get to the end of the line, and there we got off and looked around. Say, I never saw a factory the size of that one. It was big enough to hold the whole town of Wicksville, with some of the outlying districts thrown in.
“Come on,” says Mark.
“What we goin’ to do, now we’re here?” says I.