Just then Mark Tidd came through the crowd, looking as grave as a pelican, only fatter. “Mrs. Coots,” says he, “l-lemme try to manage the poor f-f-feller. He knows me well,” says he, “and I guess I kin g-git him away ’fore he hurts anybody. You got to humor sich cases,” says he.
“He might maul you,” says she.
“I hain’t afraid,” says he; “jest leggo and give me a t-t-try.”
So she let go, and Mark takes me by the arm and says: “Plunk, this is Mark Tidd. D’you know me?”
“You bet I know you,” says I.
“There,” says he to Mrs. Coots; “he knows me.”
“He’s lookin’ at you perty mean,” says she.
“I calc’late he feels some het up,” says Mark. “Now, Plunk,” he says, “I know how you f-f-feel. You feel like that baby ought to hear the b-band and git some cool air, don’t you? Well, you’re right. Yes, sir. But hain’t you scairt that maybe she’ll catch c-c-cold?”
“Somebody’ll catch somethin’,” says I.
“I t-t-tell you what,” says he, “if I was you I’d git that baby indoors and put her to b-b-bed. She’ll be gettin’ mumps or somethin’ if you drag her around in the night air. You jest take a walk with me and we’ll put her to bed. Hain’t that best?”